


Bright Things

by brightlin



Series: Where Wise Men Fear to Tread [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair Has Issues, Amell Inquisitor, Blood Magic, F/F, F/M, Fereldan noble politics, Hardened Alistair (Dragon Age), Infertility, Mages and Templars, POV Alistair, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soul Bond, mage! Alistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 123,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightlin/pseuds/brightlin
Summary: Two Wardens died at Ostagar, but a deal was struck long ago between Maric and Flemeth for the coming Blight. A soulbond is the price Alistair and Elissa unwittingly paid for a second chance. Alistair becomes desperate to keep his oldest, darkest secret: he might be a mage.
["Bright Things" combines characters and lore from across all Dragon Age media.]





	1. Ogre

**Author's Note:**

> Bright Things is a soulbond AU with some canon scenes. While it is set in Origins, it was written to incorporate some lore elements from Inquisition. It features the POV of a hardened Alistair who must slowly come to terms with his darkest secret: he's a mage.
> 
> The main pairing is Alistair/Cousland. Cullen/Amell will feature in part two. Other minor pairings in some capacity include previous Cousland/Nathaniel, previous Cousland/OFC, one-sided Cousland/Teagan, one-sided Fergus/Anora, previous Wynne/Greagoir, previous Leliana/Marjolaine, background Leliana/Bethany, background Morrigan/Sten.
> 
> In Part One, Flemeth puts the deux in the machina, rescuing two Wardens from certain death. This sequence is set in the Wilds and the Hinterlands, with much focus on Redcliffe. (approximately 66K words, chapters 1-19)
> 
> In Part Two, we meet a young templar called Cullen, who is a torture survivor, and his mage friend, Solona, the future Inquisitor. This sequence is focused on the theme of magic and its consequences. (approximately 62K words, chapters 20-34)
> 
> (This story is also available at *ff.net)

** **

 

portrait of Lady Lissa Cousland painted by [ib-gomes](http://ib-gomes.tumblr.com/)

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Part One : The Usual Suspects**

 

* * *

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

_In their blood the Maker's will is written._

\- Canticle of Benedictions 4:11

 

 

 

* * *

   

It had been his mantra since recruitment: _Duncan knows best_. The almost-templar had been so, so very grateful to be free of the Chantry and the cold eyes of the Revered Mother. But if faith in the Warden-Commander was his new religion, he was coming very close to blaspheming today.

It began with a roar, the battle at Ostagar. In the shadow of the ruins, an army had amassed. At its head, a golden king prepared to be bathed in glory. Or, at least, this was how Alistair pictured it. He could see nothing from the dank staircase in the Tower of Ishal. "I can't believe he left me behind," he muttered, wiping darkspawn guts off his sword blade. "After everything we've been through."

His companion snorted. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk aloud too much?"

"Oh, that's not very nice!"

"Keep your monologuing to yourself, Warden," she suggested, re-adjusting a poorly fitting leather helmet. She had taken it off some poor dead sod on the ground level, along with a pair of gloves and a change purse. He had protested this desecration of the dead to deaf ears. "Or else every creature in the tower will hear us coming."

Alistair scoffed. "Grey Wardens don't sneak, _recruit_. They enter battle with honesty, and with, um, triumphant shouts." Oh, yes, that sounded convincing. He grimaced as her mabari chose that moment to join in the baying of the hounds. He swatted at the beast, which earned a growl and almost cost him a hand, but the keening low wail persisted from the back of its throat. He pulled his fingers to his stomach with a yelp.

"Hush, dog," she commanded. It whined. She softly pushed open the door and raised her fist, signaling their little group to a halt. "All that honesty will bring you is a lot of death."

Who did she think she was?! And what sort of game did she think she was playing? All these noble-types were the same. From the moment she had introduced herself as "Lady Cousland, daughter of the Teryn of Highever," he had known just what sort of person she was. Often, bann such and such of nowhere would try and offload his third child on the Grey, if they showed no aptitude for Chantry life and could swing a stick. In Denerim, at least, they could take up posts in the city watch. They complained to him as their daddies pledged _donations_ to Duncan. Bulbous, ruddy faces and thick necks, the lot of them— useless. Some were turned away outright, as Duncan carefully wove his way through Fereldan politics. Others died in the Joining, and ended up in their family crypts, to the relief of their older brothers.

But almost none of them had been women, unless they were cursed with a powerful ugliness. Beautiful daughters, plain daughters, even simple daughters were born to be wives or priests. It was their vocation. Eamon had explained this all to him when he first brought home Isolde. She had been stunningly beautiful then, hard to look at, which nearly disguised her cruelty. She was as close to an evil stepmother as Alistair was ever going to have. (Older, he had fantasized about her creamy shoulders until he spent into a handkerchief, as fervently as some boys worshiped Andraste. Thirteen was a disturbing age, and lonely without girls of their age about.)

Alistair had only seen pictures of the last girl Warden, an elf called Tamarel, the friend of Duncan who fell some months before he was recruited. So what was wrong with this one? The girl was tall, and slender, with flame-red hair cut to her throat. It was uneven, like maybe she had cut it herself. In the dark. With a dull knife. This, he had noticed first. Even now, it poked out under her looted helm, just on the one side.

She might have been pretty, he considered, if she hadn't been covered in gooey bits. He had always preferred blondes, anyway, buxom girls with wide hips. (A distant thought, pushed away: was he like his father?) She had small breasts and skinny arms; he was surprised she could lift the blades she was dual wielding, but she was obviously well trained or some sort of natural.

She turned her head to face him, frowning. A wicked mouth, full pink lips, even if her jaw was too strong to be considered feminine— "Ay, Warden-boy, are you even listening? You're staring."

He swallowed. "You're peeling." Oh, Maker. What a dumb thing to say.

The girl (woman?) rolled her eyes. It was too dim to see what color they were, though they were small and set perhaps slightly too wide. Her skin was, as noted, peeling substantially. She touched her face. "There was sun on the march south. I'm fair, and no good for sun." She paused. "No good for marching, either. I've got blisters like you wouldn't believe."

"Really? I'd've thought a noblewoman would own good boots!" ' _C'mon, Alistair, what are you doing? Change the subject! Offer her some ointment. No, don't do that. Give her a foot rub? Yup, that's worse.'_ As he puzzled over this, his Warden senses began to nag him, elevating from a general sick feeling in the pit of his stomach to an urgent one. "Yeah, anyway, well, we've got company." ' _Great. I sound like a halfwit.'_

With a sigh, and a dour look, she sort of melted back into a shadows of the next room, which was a skulky rogue trick, if you asked Alistair, and more than that he could not say. There was more fighting.

He couldn't keep an eye on her and the dog and the mage who had joined up with them, but she could handle herself. Duncan had chosen her and she had survived the Joining, which meant something, certainly. Perhaps the taint liked the novelty of a woman. She made him feel, well, weird, like when the Revered Mother would punish him extra even though he hadn't done any worse than the other boys. It was a sensation he associated with embarrassment and dislike. (And though he would never admit it, longing for acceptance.)

The mage perished, but took down three with him in the doing. There was no time to mourn. They hadn't even asked his name. He had some Circle trinkets with him, which Alistair pocketed, to return to First Enchanter Irving.

These staircases were becoming a struggle to climb in the weight of his armor; he felt hot and fatigued. But the battle was picking up below them, by the screaming sound of metal and death in the valley. "We're late," she said. Her every step was demonstratively tender.

Alistair would have been sympathetic, remembering his first long trek in the company of the tireless Grey Wardens... but that she had offered none to others. She had been like this in the Wilds, too, bossing them into a forced march through the soft, swampy ground. Ser Jory had complained ceaselessly; he was used to riding, when in heavy plate. _Some good it got him. Last day alive. Could have stayed at camp, drank ale, wrote a letter to his lady wife..._

"You're right," he huffed. Try as he might, he was straggling below her. "But we're going as fast as we can. Some of us aren't in light armor." Duncan probably could have cleared the tower, lit the signal, and made it back to the field to see Loghain's men join them. That thought only added to his frustration. How many other fighters were experiencing their last moments because they were late to the signal?

She had the audacity to laugh. Maybe she was deranged from the Joining. He had heard of that happening in Orlais. "Keep up, Warden-boy! We've nearly done it."

"It's not-" bristled Alistair. "I'm not a boy."

"You sure? You look like you should still be in short-pants. Were you a squire? Do templars _have_ squires?"

"It's _Ah_ - _lees_ - _tair,_ " he enunciated. "Just call me Alistair. Maybe you've forgotten already, but we're meant to be brother and sister in arms. Or perhaps you would like me to call you _my lady_?"

"Point taken." The rogue had reached the threshold of the top floor. "Truth be told, I'd been calling you _Oliver_ in my head. Had it wrong! Alistair. Alistair." She smacked her lips, tasting the word. "If you must call me anything, you may call me Elissa. But I already have a brother," she said, "and I'm not looking for a bunch of darkspawn-chasing monks to replace him." Her voice trailed away as she put distance between them.

Ugh, Maker's breath, what a difficult woman. "Lissa, I'm not trying to... That's not what I— Ogre!" He was barely through the door when the creature charged him. _How has an ogre climbed to the top?_ he thought carelessly, as though his brain refused to comprehend the danger. _Do ogres use stairs? Perhaps they rig a pulley system?_

"I see it! Move!" She was- where? To the right? Running as though her feet weren't bleeding. Her pet was angry and excited, snapping at the air.

Ogres were stupid but absolutely deadly, powerful enough to turn your bones to jelly. He rolled, dodging as though his life depended upon it. _"Even fully armored, these monsters can still break your every rib with the concussion of the strike. With its prey thus stunned, it will paralyze the spine with the bite of its jaws."_ Death would come first too fast and then too slowly, immobile and pissing yourself, screaming with ragged lungs.

He tried to orient himself to the scene. Heart pounding. Peripheral vision shot. One blow would kill a flimsy girl like her. He needed to keep its attention. Duncan's instructions continued in his head. _"Wear it down from behind. Then strike at the throat. The arteries there are the kill spot."_ He had been trained for this. Theoretically. There were pictures, training dummies. But had never seen a living one in the flesh. "Stay behind it! The neck!" _They only come out for a Blight_.

"Easier said— hup—" she gasped in ragged breaths, "—than done— Andraste's tits!"

The room was circular, but full of obstacles and barricades. They tried to keep pace with each other, counterclockwise, one in front and one behind. Dodging the charges. Taunting the creature. _"Wear it down,"_ Duncan said. But they were getting twice as tired as the ogre, and at least half as dizzy. It could see much better in the dark than they could. Their weapons barely penetrated its dense flesh.

"This is ridiculous. I'm going to make a feint."

"What?"

"Cover me."

"What are you going to do?" He pivoted, blocking a fist with his shield.

"Oy, ugly!" she shrieked, drawing the attention of the ogre.

"Sure, that's helpful, make it even madder."

"You've got a better plan?"

"I can think of a few."

Elissa seemed to stumble. But instead of recovering, she crouched, leaving herself vulnerable. ' _What is she—?'_ Alistair broke his concentration. It happened so fast that he didn't realize his mistake until it was too late.

WHAM! It felt like he had been struck by battering ram in the side. Sharp, dizzying pain, bone splintering like glass, the taste of copper in his mouth... He bounced off the wall. He couldn't breathe! Maker, please, air! He vomited weakly, red frothy ooze, his solar plexus hitching with every attempted inhale. He began to black out.

He thought he heard his name. "Warden! Alistair!" Elissa cried, hanging off the back of the beast. "You— oh, shit— you alive?" She was ten feet away, maybe, though the room was spinning and it was hard to judge. Her helmet flew off as the ogre bellowed and struggled to displace her. The mabari was clamped deep onto a muscled elbow, likely cutting to the bone, snarling as its body was whipped about. "This is not going to plan!"

He could not speak, but, propped on his good side, he lifted the injured arm to show he was still there. The motion was agonizing. Did she know what to do? ' _She hasn't had any training. She's only been a Warden for a few hours. I was supposed to protect her. Going to die going to die— No, I—_ _The tower was supposed to be secure_.'

Her red hair flashed, a lick of fire curling up. ' _Andraste's holy fire—'_ and she hung on for dear life. Her sword was hilt deep through the shoulder, her only handle. Perhaps it was the Maker's providence, perhaps it was dumb luck, but her dagger found a weak place in the ogre's leathery skin, and penetrated the brain stem. It roared, sinew tearing and bile erupting. She was flung free; her dog dragged the monster down and went for the throat.

His companion was so small, really, couldn't have weighed more than eight stone, and like a flat pebble on the water, she skidded across the smooth floor. Her body was heaving, twitching silently. He finally found his breath, croaking, "Lissa?"

_'We can't both be— someone has to—'_

It was a whole minute before she responded, in a voice of mirth: "Fine, I'm fine!" Maker, she was laughing again! "Saw my life in front of my eyes, but I'm fine. Suddenly I'm grateful Mother spent so much time teaching me to dance, ha ha!"

"What?" The woman was unhinged. Surely. "Never mind. I thought you were hurt." His stomach was rolling.

She pulled herself up on a column: wobbly knees and unsteady breath. "Disappointed?" The dog gave a happy bark. It was smeared with the blood of the ogre; it was consuming the eyeballs and the flesh of the face. Frightening creature.

"No. But I thought I was going to have to drag myself to the signal fire."

She sobered, hurrying to his side. "I thought it was just the wind knocked out of you."

"Yes, that and a bit more." ' _What is that wheezing noise? Oh, that's me.'_ Elissa hovered over him. Her eyes were big pools. From here, he could see the color, green. "You look a little frazzled. Don't they cover combat medicine... in that... manor of yours?"

"Mother Mallol said I was a lost cause. Decent grasp of anatomy, but no bedside manners. No, um, patience. Should I take off your breastplate?" Her hair fell toward his face in sweaty ribbons.

"I don't know. My ribs, my shoulder, my arm... I think the armor might be holding me together."

"There's blood in your mouth. On your teeth." She touched his face, to wipe his cheeks. Her hands were not soft like he expected, but rather rough with calluses and chewed nails.

"That means there's blood on the inside. Could be bad." He coughed. "Feels bad. Do we have any healing potions?"

"No, but I can look for one. There are plenty of bodies—"

"Elissa, go light the signal fire. Duncan and the king need us to do it. I'll be fine. We'll find a healer after the battle is over."

"But you don't look—"

"Signal the teryn. Do your duty. Please, for me." He must have imagined the look on her face then, like she'd seen a spirit. Giving orders made him queasy.

"Damn my duty!" she spat back, but obeyed, leaving him on the cold, hard floor to collect a torch.

The whole room filled with bright things, the shadows driven away. The sound of battle was clearer from here, louder. Hot bile rose in his throat; it hurt. It hurt so bad that when his nerves went dead from shock, it was a blessed relief. He smiled when she returned. His vision was swimming; she looked glowing, magical... red and gold. "You look like the Bride of the Maker." He grinned sloppily to the woman who cradled his head. "I take it back. You are pretty." She had a beautiful silhouette. "Good nose."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. Her voice was strained. Was she stroking his hair? "I think you're hallucinating. Hush, Alistair, save your strength. I'm sorry, I couldn't find a potion. But I won't leave you alone for this."

Suddenly, he knew. ' _I'm dying,_ ' he thought, but could not muster up any fear. And what's more, he knew she knew. He should have been scared, but he was too tired to be. Didn't have time. Everything floated, calling to him down from a great distance. He wondered what kind of eulogy Duncan would give him. Duncan who was— "What's happening out there?"

Elissa was petting his hand, speaking to him of things he barely understood. "My mother refused to leave my father. She died protecting him, so that he could know a peaceful end. I wanted to stay. Duncan wouldn't let me."

Alistair struggled to follow this abrupt confession. "Your parents are...?"

"My father said it was my duty to be a Grey Warden. I think I might have hated him, the last moment I saw him. I didn't know. I didn't understand." He found it hard to reconcile this soft—spoken woman with the laughing valkyrie of battle. He found it hard to think at all.

"You never said any of this to us. Daveth had... had money on you being..." He caught himself. It wasn't a polite thing to share with a lady. "Duncan said it was your story to tell. For what it's worth, I'm sorry for your loss."

"I was never supposed to be here. I was so angry. But I think I got it, when I killed that, that— thing. I've been trained to be a soldier. To do my duty. To protect Highever. But it's all gone. Rendon, he- betrayed! He was like my uncle. Nathaniel, Delilah, Thomas," she shook her head. "If I hadn't been so... well, I would have been one of them."

She spoke for a while, sad but soothing, telling him how her mother had been a talented archer, and had pressed her to be clever if she could not be strong; how this Nathaniel had taught her all the rogue skills that her mother found unbecoming: how to pick a lock, how to pick a pocket, how to lie convincingly. He went away to become a knight in the Free Marches. Alistair got the impression that she might have been in love with this boy. He began to fade out when she told him of Fergus. Her brother? They had drilled at swords together... He was cold, cold all the way through, and couldn't get warm...

The trumpets sounded, and then, like the dark fingers of the archdemon himself, a wailing began on the wind.

"Elissa, what's happening?" He couldn't feel his fingers. There were noises below them. "You looked out."

"You shouldn't have to..." She ran her fingers over his closed eyelids. "I'm sorry."

He could hear the panic in her breathing, but it seemed so distant. Muted. "What's happening?" he repeated.

"The army has been routed," she said. "The darkspawn have the field. I couldn't see what happened. We are surrounded by the bulk of the horde. There's no chance of escape for us." Noiseless tears were rolling thick down her cheeks, as though she didn't know she was crying, and forgot to sob. She licked the salt from her lips.

"Loghain failed?" That seemed impossible, as impossible as the Grey Wardens falling. "What about Duncan? What about the other Wardens? And Cailan?!" Ugly pain in his side, his body simply refusing to allow him to sit up. Something pricked in his eyes, blinding him. "Could you see?"

"Alistair, I—" A crash. She jerked upright, looking to the door. She lifted her hands, and he saw that they were dripping, red and slick, with fresh blood. ' _My blood.'_ "Ah. I've left my father's sword stuck in the ogre. Well then."

"What's...?" The question hung on his lips. Without her to support his neck, he could no longer lift his head. And what he could see stunned his tongue.

"Not to worry, Warden dear, just some visitors." There was only time for her to square her shoulders to face their new enemies. The arrow split the air, hissing; it buried itself in her white throat. A bloody rose bloomed from the strike, and she crumpled down upon him. He was sure she was dead before she fell; the body was heavy enough to jolt his injuries, and he cried out wordlessly. The pain was too much, and he accepted the rushing darkness. The dog howled, lunging and snapping at their murderers.

In the beginning, they died.


	2. Snake

He was having the nightmare, _the_ nightmare, the one he had had since he was a mewling tot in a trundle bed. The dark wings. The flapping feathers, the sharp claws, lifting him up and carrying him away— Chantry Sister Hume, his nurse since birth, would scoop him up in her big soft arms and tell him that he was safe. She called him, "my little prince, my beloved," in her low Orlesian voice. He did not know then, could not have understood, that his real mother was gone, that Hume's own baby had been born dead. That she had become addled with her grief. But he knew that she loved him. And that in her embrace, he was safe.

 

They had not cast him out right away, no. They had to know first that Queen Rowan's child was strong and healthy and would not succumb to any of the dangerous sicknesses of childhood. Alistair was the spare- no use in wasting a perfectly good boychild. Eamon had no wife, no children— the girl he had loved during the rebellion had been ruined by a chevalier and— the nursery was empty. So he had his own place in Redcliffe Castle, warm and cozy and full of soft things, and more toys and books than any one child had use for. A wooden sword. A tin helmet just his very own size. Sweet cakes and cow's milk and the promise of a pony when he was older.

Only a few knew the truth of his birth. Despite the fact that Alistair's very existence was a slight upon the memory of his dead sister, still fresh in her grave when Alistair was born, Eamon Guerrin treated him like his own son, and so Redcliffe came to believe that the little towheaded lordling was the child of their arl and a dead servant girl. He was practical, Eamon, and took the task of raising Maric's brat quite seriously. The younger Guerrin, Teagan, took to him in the way only a child-uncle could: dragging the boy with him into his lessons, instructing him at table, and romping about with their puppies.

Alistair called him "uncle," but only in private, for he had been reprimanded harshly for being so familiar. It had been an accident. He was beside himself on the day they took Hume away from him, the day after his fourth birthday, because big lads didn't need their wet nurses any more. The large woman sobbed into her vestments. He had pleaded, "Papa, no! Please! I need her!" They were dragging her away! He didn't want to be alone! He reached for her—

SLAP! His teeth rattled in his head. He was too stunned to cry. "Alistair, I am not your father," said the bearded man sternly, crouching to be on his level, "and she is not your mother. You must make sense of your place in the world."

"But I..." He rocked from one foot to another, trying hard not to blubber.

"You are no longer a baby, to be coddled at her breast. And I will not always be able to protect you. Today's lesson: you must learn to watch your tongue. Alistair, look me in the eye. Alistair, now." Reluctantly, the boy met the arl's unblinking gaze. It was not a cruel face. In fact, Eamon seemed sad. He reached out, and gently smoothed away the red mark. "Every noble child in Ferelden must know: secrets are important. They protect the king. You want to protect the king, don't you?"

"Yes," said Alistair bravely, puffing up his little chest. "The king is 'portant."

"Yes he is," agreed Eamon. "The king keeps us safe. He looks after the best interests of all the people. Especially us. He makes sure everybody has a place. What is my place?"

"Arl," said the child, after some thought, though it came out sounding like "owl."

"Very good." Eamon nodded. "What about Cailan?"

Alistair smiled. "Prince!" He liked to hear stories about Cailan. They came in the letters from Denerim. Cailan was his brother. Cailan liked books.

"Right again. Now a hard one. What is _your_ place?"

His small brow furrowed. "I'm Alistair."

"Indeed. And what would you like to be?" Eamon coaxed.

"I 'unno. Big."

"You will be."

"Protect the king?" Alistair asked, averting his gaze, toying with his tunic.

The arl sighed and pulled him into an embrace. "If you would like, my boy," he said into his hair. "Cailan will be the king some day. You understand?"

"Yes. I can help him."

"You might. Some people would not like that, though."

"Why?"

"I will explain when you're older."

"I'm four." He pushed up four fingers. "This many. I'ma big lad now." He made a snuffling noise, remembering that being big meant that he couldn't have his nursemaid. She hadn't even given him his goodbye present.

"Very well. But let us find a chair, child. My knees are aching from the floor." Eamon stood up, slowly, releasing Alistair. There was just one chair in the nursery, a big soft one by the dying fire where Hume would knit. She told stories about Orlais, about Andraste's army, about brave queen Rowan. She liked stories about women, and had wanted to be a bard, but she had been born in the Chantry. She had been in the service of the last Orlesian governor at Redcliffe before the Guerrins came back from the Free Marches, and knew the woman Eamon was courting.

Now, no more stories.

"Alistair. You may be too young to understand this, but you are a secret."

"Why?"

"Everyone has a place. But some people do not understand yours. They think you will try to take Cailan's place."

"Why?"

"Because you are Maric's son."

"Oh." Alistair climbed up into Eamon's lap. "Why can't you be my papa?"

"Because I am not." The boy Alistair looked into his guardian's face. There was a strange ripple, as though light was bouncing off the surface of a pond. Something changed. "But if you would like me to be, I will be your papa. You can stay with me here at Redcliffe forever. I won't marry that Orlesian temptress, and you and Teagan can be my heirs."

Alistair beamed a smile, snuggling into Eamon's embrace. It was warm, and safe, and peaceful.

"You're not actually buying this, are you?" queried an unfamiliar voice.

"Who are you?" asked Alistair, afraid. A dark haired woman stepped into the light of the fire, strangely dressed. She was smirking, and she had eyes like a snake.

"Don't listen to her, son," said Eamon, holding him tighter. "She's a witch, come to take you away from me."

Alistair whimpered. "No. Go away."

"Templar, none of this is real. This is a dream. You are not a little boy, and he is not your new father. He is a spirit, trying to keep you trapped in the Fade."

"Shh, I will send her away. You can stay with me," whispered Eamon, reassuring. "Don't worry, Alistair."

"Alistair, is it?" she came closer, touching him. She was beautiful, and frightening, and her touch made his heart race. "You must know that this is a dream. I'm sure this is a very touching scene, but it is not real. Could never be. I have little patience for these games, spirit. You will let him go now."

"He's mine," spat Eamon, expanding in size. Bigger and bigger, and he was a thing with dark wings, holding him tight, squeezing the life out of him.

"Let me go!" Alistair screamed, a scared little boy in the grips of his nightmare. "Please, Eamon!" The witch drew her staff and fired a spell, striking the dark creature. It was a large bird. The floor gave way, and they all fell...

It was hot. And cold. Gripped in the claws of fever, Alistair struggled. Time meant nothing. The dark haired stranger muttered nonsense words, fed him mouthfuls of broth, touched places that would have made him blush, if he could have spared the blood. The old woman was there, too, instructing, crushing sickly-sweet herbs in her mortar and pestle. He hurt, everywhere, but gradually he did not. He could not think of a time before the cool and the dark, the wet cloth on his face.

It was light the first time he woke. _Ugh, I'm all sweaty._ He felt around. _I'm in bed. A proper bed. I haven't seen a proper bed in months._ "I'm in my smallclothes!" he gasped. "Ow." His throat was dry, his lips cracked. His eyes were so bleary he could hardly see.

"I was beginning to think you would never come around." The woman was tending her cooking pot on the hearth. "It would have been a shame for you to die when we spent so much effort preventing it."

"You!" he croaked.

"Yes, me. I am Morrigan. You will be thirsty, I suppose." She fed him water with a ladle. It was cold, and sweet, and he drank greedily. His stomach felt like it would burst. "Careful. Don't want that coming back up."

"Where am I?" Alistair sat up, feeling strength return to him with the water.

"You are in my mother's hut, in the Wilds."

"How?"

"What do you remember?" She set the ladle back in the pail.

Alistair considered this. His chest and arm was heavily bandaged, but he could feel no pain when he flexed his muscles. "There was a battle. And an ogre." He laughed, feeling self conscious. "I'm not sure. I was crushed. Nothing after that. How did I get here?" His eyes darted around the room. One bed, a cooking fire, a large chest. Bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. A wash basin. A broom. _Heh, witch's broom_.

"You and your companion were killed. Mother turned into a giant bird and plucked your corpses off the tower."

_Impossible_. "Killed?"

"Or something very like it."

"Ha, I don't feel dead." He took stock. _Two eyes, two ears, two hands... one cock... important bits, check._

"I had to drag you kicking and screaming out of the Fade," she sniffed, unimpressed. "You have daddy issues."

Alistair's stomach turned. "So what you're saying is, I was dead, through the Veil, and you forced my spirit _back_ into my body. I think I'm going to be sick."

"No you're not, not in the bed," she hissed, hastily offering him a bucket. "Besides, you're alive now. Intact, even. Your injuries were not too much for Mother to overcome."

"It's not natural, using magic like that. You apostates could be abominations, for all I know."

"I'm not an abomination, templar," she snapped, her voice rising in pitch. _Ooh, hurt her feelings._

"I'm not a templar! I'm a Grey Warden!" he snarled back, pushing himself out of bed. For a moment, his legs felt like jellied eels, and he wobbled. She steadied him. Her touch reminded him of something, something scary. His heart stuttered. "You don't have to— I'm fine."

"You don't look it. You look like the most ungrateful man I've ever met."

Alistair grinned. "You must not have met very many men." _Okay, that was a weird thing to say. Regroup._ _There's something important—_ He pulled away. "You said you picked up my companion. She's dead?"

Morrigan folded her arms. "No."

A crumb of relief to cling to. "Ah... thank the Maker."

"You both have been very sick for several weeks. She came to nearly two days ago. She's outside now, with Mother."

"Great, um, good, um... excellent. Well. If you will give me my armor, please, we will have to try and catch up with Duncan. The Grey probably think we're dead. Which we, uh, I guess we were." He was struck with the urge to get out of this place. The woman's snake-eyes made his skin crawl. She did not move like a Fereldan woman. Maybe all Korcari witches swayed their hips so, like an adder trying to hypnotize a shrew.

"You do not remember? Your brain might be addled worse than I thought... The army was routed at the old fortress. The Blight has advanced into your country."

"What?"

"Your king perished on the battlefield. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field."

"No, that's not possible." It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, all over again. He sank down onto the bed. _Cailan, he can't be... no!_ _He was so excited to join us, to be like his parents, riding off to victory with the Wardens. He must have heard the stories so many more times that I did._

"My Mother witnessed it. She reports that your Wardens were massacred." She delivered this blow so calmly.

His belly went queer when he thought of Duncan and then he was reaching for her bucket. He vomited water and acid and shuddered all over, tears leaking unbidden from the violence of the action. "Are you quite finished?" He retched again, but nothing more would come. "Your friend wanted to tell you herself, but I volunteered. I thought it would be easier if it came from some one... less involved." She took the slop pail from him with distaste, holding it far away from herself. "Perhaps I was wrong. You should go speak to her. Your clothes are in the chest; I will leave you be."

All he could think about was how much he needed a piss. It was strange, not being able to think of it. Duncan dead. Cailan dead. All the others. All his friends. _I was dead, too._ _The Cousland girl, dead_. What had she said to him on the tower? He dressed slowly, mechanically, fingers stiff and unfamiliar to him. First his shirt and trousers, which had been laundered fresh. The witches were very clean people. Then his socks, which were full of holes. His codpiece was dented. His chainmail shirt was permanently bloodstained, as were his boots. The heaviest pieces required someone else to buckle them. He carried them out. There was silence ringing in his ears. _"There's no chance of escape for us."_

"Was she right?" he asked himself. He felt so tired. Alistair pushed open the door and crossed the threshold, into a small clearing in the swamp. All his life, he had counted on other people to tell him what to do next. But he was at a loss. There was no leader here. Eamon and the Chantry had fostered obedience, not leadership. Eamon... Eamon might still know what to do, now.

He went stomping off into the brush to relieve himself. The mosquitoes didn't seem to mind the cold of the south. After, he came across a familiar figure in armor. She wore a soft yellow sash, bound around her neck. Her hair was clean but curling madly in the humid air. Beside her laid her dog, napping in the morning sun. _How in the hell did he get here?_

"Morrigan tells me you didn't take the news very well," said the woman. She was sitting on a fallen tree, whittling away at a stick with her knife. "Neither did I."

Alistair could not see either of the Wilds witches. Where they had gone, he did not care. He stood behind Elissa, not feeling like sitting. "I reacted... physically," he admitted.

"I tried to put a hole in Flemeth with this little pig-sticker. Came to my senses, though. I'm pretty sure they're not the enemy, since they saved our lives. At least forty percent sure." She gestured with her weapon. "Hungry? I've got some bread in my pack."

"No, I'm not hungry." He grimaced. He wasn't sure he'd ever be hungry again. "You any good at assembling armor?"

"You want me to try my hand at squiring? I could oblige."

"Thanks." He dropped his plate to the earth. "Hey, did you say Flemeth? As in, _the_ Flemeth, who fought the hero Cormac?"

"Isn't that a story? I'm not very good at remembering the old tales," Elissa noted. "My teacher, Aldous, used to say there was a whistling noise between my ears. But I'm pretty sure that was his snoring."

"I had an instructor at the monastery who was _obsessed_ with Flemeth. Asha'bellanar. Very dramatic. Said she was going to come into our beds in the dead of night and snatch up our seed to make demon daughters with. I think he thought she was a succubus or a desire demon."

"Huh? Damn, that's a better story than I ever got from Aldous." She buckled his shoulder piece. "Any of it true? Is Morrigan a—" she whistled "—demon daughter?"

"I would hate to ask. There's about five different versions of the story, anyways. Who knows what you can believe. The gist is the same, though— she's bad news."

"She protected the Warden treaties. She saved us," Elissa countered, biting her lip as she focused on her task. "Damn rusty clasps," she muttered.

"Yes, and at what cost, I wonder? The stories all agree upon one thing— witches always want something in return."

"Is that so?" said the old woman from behind them. Where had she come from? Perhaps she had transformed herself into a bird again. "Are you so selfless that you do while expecting nothing?" Alistair turned. Here was the infamous Witch of the Wilds. And here was her Chasind daughter.

Alistair was angry, but he couldn't find the words for it. She had... violated him in the manner in which she had saved him. It went against everything he had ever been taught. "I—" he shook his head.

"Well, speak up boy."

"It's not fair. I don't make bargains without knowing the terms. I was not given a choice."

Flemeth smiled, her wizened face creasing at the hollows. "The choice was simple. You lived or you died. _In absentia_ , I believe a sensible course of action was taken."

"You should have saved Duncan and Cailan. They were our leaders. We needed them."

She nodded. "You feel you are expendable? Very well, you were expendable. But I could not have reached them, had I wanted. Some things in motion cannot be stopped." She indicated to his comrade. "And what of you, girl? I have found you to be unexpectedly wise, for your age and experience."

"Really?"

"I _expect_ nothing."

Elissa blinked, undoubtedly holding back a sharp remark. She exhaled, shoved her knife deep in the log, and stood. "I made my peace with my death, when it came for me. But I'm not fatalist. Given the chance to live, I'll choose life over the alternative."

"A smart girl."

"Come now, Mother, surely the only honest choice is life," disagreed Morrigan. "One need not be clever to follow the most basic of instincts. The man is either an idiot, or he feels guilty for surviving when his associates did not."

"Do not speak when you have nothing to add to the conversation, girl," Flemeth rebuked.

"It's not that I'm not grateful, because... I am," tried Alistair. "I like being alive. I do. I disagree with your methods, but here I am. Breathing, and all. But I want to know why."

"A reasonable request, though I cannot oblige. I cannot say why I do what I do. Perhaps it is the fancy of an old woman. My magic has served you both well, has it not?"

"Yes, but—"

"You are living Grey Wardens. It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"

"No, you're right," said Elissa, frowning. "We still have the treaties. Though I do not know what use they will be to us."

"I know them well," Morrigan offered. "I can educate you on the finer points before you leave." Elissa met the look of the mage. _How have they become so chummy so fast?_

"Ferelden will hardly be united after— first Howe, now Loghain. And they have so much time on us."

Alistair had been so distracted over the news of the death of his brother and his mentor that he had barely been able to consider Teryn Loghain. "Why would he do it? I don't understand. Cailan was the son of his best friend!"

"Now that is a good question. Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature," murmured Flemeth.

The witch was speaking in riddles. Again. She lectured briefly on the history of the archdemons, explaining to the newest warden the story of Tevinter and the Old Gods. It should have been Duncan's lesson to teach.

"If it's Grey Wardens needed, shouldn't we send to Orlais?"

"I had that thought, too," Alistair agreed, "But there isn't time. They were supposed to meet Cailan's army and provide reinforcements against the darkspawn. But it's been weeks. If they're not here, then they have been told it is not a true Blight and returned home. It will take too long to reassemble and march from Orlais."

"There is another matter," she began. "Duncan conscripted me, but... now he's dead. I want to... I should focus on reclaiming Highever. If my brother Fergus is alive, he will need me to lead his army. If he's... if he perished," she swallowed, "then I am the new teryna. I would be more useful in the Landsmeet. I must bring word of Rendon Howe's crimes, the poisonous bastard."

"Be that as it may, there won't be a Highever, or even a Thedas," interjected Flemeth, "if the Wardens do not warn Ferelden. You would leave the boy to do it by himself? To go play in your civil war?"

"No, but-"

"You're both right," said Alistair. "Whatever Loghain's insanity, he obviously thinks the darkspawn are a minor threat. We must warn everyone this isn't the case. We can use the Landsmeet, maybe. I think. But you said it yourself, who knows what sort of poison Howe has been spreading? With Bryce and Eleanor Cousland dead— and again, I'm so sorry— the next strongest voice is Arl Eamon Guerrin in Redcliffe. We will need his support."

"Eamon?" pressed Elissa. "I hardly know him. What makes you think he would stand against Loghain?"

"But _I_ know him. If Arl Eamon knew what Loghain did at Ostagar, he would be the first to call for his execution. He betrayed his own king." Alistair gritted his teeth. _Eamon will help catch this snake._

"The Guerrins _are_ royalists. As ardent as we Couslands. And they have an intact army. Redcliffe wasn't at Ostagar." She looked thoughtful. "But I knew Queen Anora when we were girls. Just one teryn's daughter to another, mind. She's charming, manipulative, and very, very loyal to her father. And she will have the ear of the Landsmeet just as strongly as Eamon."

"It sounds as though your goals are not entirely at cross purposes," commented Flemeth.

Elissa nodded. "Okay. I'm in. But we need a plan. A good plan."

"The Grey Warden treaties oblige certain parties to provide aid during a Blight. Your subjugated mages, the Dalish elves, and the Orzammar dwarves must lend soldiers," added Morrigan. "T'would be useful to have many kinds of allies."

"I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else... this sounds like an army to me. And you said you were prepared to lead an army."

Elissa flushed. "It's one thing to be trained to command soldiers. It's quite another to do it, and strangers as well. Theoretically, I can do it. Of course, theoretically I can keep a budget for an estate and do my own hair, but as you can see," she indicated to her uneven locks, "it's theory." She stage-whispered to him, "There aren't any lady's maids in the Wardens, so..." She made a _shhhhick_ sound with her tongue, miming cutting off her red hair.

"Well, I think it looks nice," he assured. It didn't, but it would have been mean to say otherwise. She squinted at him, so he tacked on: "It'll, um, grow out."

She turned back to the old woman, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "So, we have two Wardens on a grand mission to _save the world_ , and my dog, who somehow chased you all the way back here. No supplies, no money, not very many friends. And I left my family sword in a fucking ogre."

Flemeth chuckled. "A truthful observation, _my lady_. I cannot magic you back your sword. But I can provide you with something better than a sword. Morrigan, when the Wardens leave, you will be going with them."

"What?" her daughter sputtered.

"What?!" hiccuped Alistair.

"You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears," she laughed. "You know your way through the Wilds, and can lead them on the safe paths around the horde. Her magic will be useful to you. She has already saved you once, in what you call the Fade. And she is a shape-changer. She can scout from the skies where you cannot."

"Sounds very useful."

_Oh, Maker's breath!_ Alistair pulled her aside. "Lissa, you can't be serious. She's a witch. Maybe a useful one, but not a _nice_ one."

"Alistair, consider this the cost of our bargain; she is the repayment."

"Mother, I am not a pawn in your game, nor am I a deal to be struck!"

"Hush! You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Don't tell me you would not jump at the opportunity to see the world, had I not been the one suggesting it?"

"Look. Not to... look a gift horse in the mouth, but won't this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate."

"There is the matter of your clothes," Elissa said. "Very pretty, yes, here in Chasind territory, but you'll stick out in civilization."

"As though your country was somehow the be-all of the civil world," retorted Morrigan, smarting. "I have read that feathers are popular in Orlais."

"But you look like a witch. Like, more than usual. A witchy-witch." _Sounded better in my head_.

"I am a witch!" Morrigan blurted. "No, I will not engage in these games. I am a mage." She covered her face with her hands. _Half naked witch._ He shivered, determined to not stare at her exposed busom.

"If it makes you feel better, dear," Flemeth soothed. "If this is a concern to you, there is a Fereldan village not far to the north. Perhaps you can procure acceptable garments there."

"This one is not telling me how to dress. Nor that one."

"You'll listen to the Wardens, if you want a home to come back to. They are the only chance against the Blight."

"But I'm... not even ready."

"They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I." They looked each other in the eyes, sharing an expression that Alistair could not translate.

"I..." she capitulated, "understand." There was sadness there, and fire too.

"And do you, Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in the world. I do this because you _must_ succeed."

Alistair was suddenly reminded of the day when he, but a ten year old boy, had been banished from the only home he had ever known and sent off to the monastery. How angry he had been, and how lonely. "I understand," he echoed quietly.

Elissa shook her head. "We'll do or die trying. Barring any further rescues from the Fade." She looked to the witches, smiling. "No? Fine. I understand, Flemeth. You remind me of my mother. Not sure how I feel about that, actually."


	3. Champion

There were no enormous magical birds or angry demigods flapping about their heads. Yet. It should have been as simple as following the path out of the mire.

He had been wrong, of course; at this point, it should not have surprised him. The wastes were endless, inscrutable. There were things, things he'd never even heard of before: quicksand, a kind of squelching muddy trick of nature which would slowly drag you to your death (faster in heavy armor); bogholes twenty feet or deeper, full of fetid water, slippery sided, which could drown even the largest animals; old magics and haunted reliquaries discarded by mages fleeing into the Wilds...

What passed for paths appeared, often forked. One seemed equally good as another. But thirty paces on they would vanish, and where there had been trail there was stone cliff-face, or brackish water, or worse. Ruins mouldered. Sunlight filtered though the branches as insects hissed and hummed their strange melodies. Sweat pooled in his unmentionable areas. _If we find a source of clean water, I swear I'm taking a bath. The girls will just have to close their eyes._ But there was precious little to drink, just his flask for the lot. The witch would only begrudgingly cast her purification spell to make it potable. As though it was some great inconvenience to keep them alive.

In the night, they bunked down on the damp greens, taking turns on watch. There was no chance of a fire, not with the darkspawn all about. Alistair would have been grateful for just a few warm embers, and took to sleeping with the dog. Morrigan took to the trees as a cat. Elissa, who was clearly unused to lying on the ground, barely slept at all. Every shudder in the wind, every hoot of the owl, every snapping twig had them bolting up, reaching for their weapons.

"Why don't you try and close your eyes?" Alistair whispered encouragingly as he took a seat beside her. "I'll wake you if anything comes. It'll only be a few hours until the dawn breaks."

"No. I can't," she murmured in reply. She was flat on her back, knees pulled up, hands resting on her stomach.

His back was aching, and his eyes were heavy. The cold had settled deep in his bones, beyond shivering now. He could only begin to imagine how she would be feeling. She was just a girl, and a lady at that. She had probably never spent nights in the hay, like he had as a child, avoiding Isolde's rampages. Isolde— now there's a woman he wouldn't have minded seeing sleepless on the cold ground.

"You know, my nan used to say that if I didn't shut my eyes and go to sleep like a good little lad, a sloth demon would come out from under the bed, and make me."

Lissa chuckled, and tucked a hand up and under her head. "I think my nan might have told me something like that, too. I wouldn't want to have to fight off a demon just because some wife's tale turned out to be true."

"I'll kill it for you," Alistair assured her. "No one's getting snatched on my watch. Not even miss grouchy-whiskers in the tree." A hiss echoed down from above. "Ahahaha, Morrigan, you're not a very scary witch when you weigh less than a stone soaking wet."

"Shush, she could still claw you, haha." They shared a quiet laugh together. The wind blew their voices away, and it seemed to grow even darker. As his eyes re-adjusted to the night, he could see that she was trembling. "I—"

_Hell_. In what must have been a fit of insanity, he lifted her up and pulled her onto his lap.

"Hey," she yelped, struggling in his strong arms, "what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Lis— oh relax— I'm not taking advantage of you. Just trust me!" She stilled, and let him pull her closer. "I would never." His mouth was close to her chilled pink ear, and the hot breath made her twitch. "You're cold, and you're exhausted, and you need to rest, or else tomorrow I'm going to be carrying you."

"You expect me to sleep like this?" she huffed, but the places where their bodies met were warming quickly. Groaning, she pressed herself tight to his broad chest. It was not precisely comfortable for him, either. She was all long limbs and bony bits and her ass was square _, square_ on his crotch. He exhaled, willing himself not to get an erection. Years with the Order had enforced pretty good body control, he thought, but they weren't miracle workers. _Holding a woman. Hoooolding a wo-man. Don't think about it. How can her hair still smell so good when we're in a swamp? Bad thought! Explain!_

"They say you should huddle together for warmth."

"Who says?" He thought he saw her eyes close.

"Um, I don't know. People do."

"My mother would not approve."

"Mm."

Her voice was small. "But she's dead now."

"Lissa..." He didn't know what to say. What did people say, wrapped around each other like vines on a tree? He had never taken a woman to bed, not even a prostitute. They weren't supposed to, but sometimes a templar would take up with a sister. They were very beautiful and virtuous, just like the one they worshiped, and very tempting. If they were lucky and had a kind Mother, and the woman was not affirmed, they might be married, and be allowed to live within the Chantry together. If they were less fortunate, they would be banished from each other, like Sister Hume. No one was allowed to leave the Order. _Except me, I guess._

"When we were kids, Nate used to tell us this ghost story. Near his home, there was this place called the Blackmarsh. He liked to scare me and Thomas with it."

"Who's Nate?"

"I told you," she shifted a little, "I told you at Ostagar. Maybe you don't remember."

"Sorry, it's more or less a blank." _Flemeth's doing._

"That's okay. He's an old friend, from childhood."

"Ah." _One of the servant boys_ , he imagined.

"Legend goes that the Blackmarsh used to have a village full of people there. But one day, they all vanished, without a trace. And any adventurer that goes looking in the marsh never comes home again. All who valued their lives would do well to stay away..."

They both jumped at a sudden noise. _Maker's love! Just a frog_. Alistair cleared his throat. "Lovely story. Very fitting for the atmosphere. I thought you didn't remember tales?"

"Only when I'm in damned bog myself and I'm piss-scared," she groused. "How can I sleep? Nate used to say that we should go exploring in the Blackmarsh when I was older. Even Fergus thought it was too dangerous, and he was never chicken for anything." She rested her face against his throat. He could feel her eyelashes flutter against the scruff of his beard; it was odd, ticklish, and made his stomach feel strange. "Do you think he's out here somewhere, hiding in the Wilds?"

"Who, Nate?"

"No, Fergus, my brother. Has he gone to the Chasind? The last report of him before the battle was that he was scouting with some of the Highever boys." She yawned expressively.

_Dead, probably_ , he could not say. "Of course. He's out here somewhere, just like us."

"Huddling together for warmth?"

"Yup. Just so."

He felt sleep overtake her. Though his body was screaming for a stretch, and his feet had gone to pins and needles, he held as still as he could. She trusted him, and he would not, could not break that trust. _Ninety-nine bottles of ale on the wall... ninety-nine bottles of ale..._

Two days in, Elissa was picking up the knack for the Chasind trail signs— a pile of stones here, a felled tree there— as they moved due north. Morrigan sometimes appeared to explain, always and only to her, the particular meaning of a marker, but most of the time she took the form of a small starling. The bird had vibrant plumage- purple, blue, and glossy black- and circled them overhead, gorging on flying pests and keeping watch for darkspawn. The first time she had transformed it had been startling. Now, Alistair barely reacted to the sound, which was like a campfire cracking or popping.

"These Blight wolves are becoming a real menace," he said with an exaggerated sigh, pulling his weapon from the belly of a slaughtered beast. "How is it that the farmers have not been overrun by the packs?"

"They put down traps, of course," replied Morrigan. "Some will even pay for poisons. There is a woman just outside Lothering who trades in kind for her venom."

Elissa pried a bow from the bony hands of a hunter's corpse. "Do you sell them?"

"No, not I. I found that other goods were more profitable: warming balms, healing salves, and the like. The Fereldan peasants always had use for these, and I had use for their coin."

Alistair shook his head. "Good to know that you won't poison our ears or something in our sleep."

She looked at him, quizzically. "Do not think that I could not."

"Wonderful. I'll sleep with one eye open."

"See that you do."

"Poison is a favorite of the nobility," said Lissa. "It is more the tool of the assassin than the witch. Many are educated in the art in equal measure, both in brewing the foul things and in detecting the handiwork of others." She tested the torque of the bowstring. It _twanged_ under her fingers. "Ah. Still functional. My mother, for example, was a battlemaiden in her wilder days, an archer in the war. I've heard she was almost _unnaturally_ fond of poisoned barbs."

_Well, that's disturbing_.

"A sensible woman," Morrigan endorsed.

_Doubly disturbing._

"My father thought so," Elissa smiled. She strapped her new bow to her pack. "I'm a fair shot, but she was always better; I never could compete. It takes great arm strength, and more than that, the patience to wait for the air to be right. Nevertheless, I'm hoping to take some of these arrows and bag us some dinner. I'm absolutely famished."

The mabari whined, and Alistair was inclined to agree with him. At least the hound had been able to munch on the odd fluffy thing. He wasn't as particular as his human companions. Flemeth's soft, lovely bread had run out quick as a whistle between the two of them, even with Morrigan not partaking. _If I had bothered to supply, instead of marching off feeling sorry for myself, we might have lasted to the village_ , he thought. But kicking himself now would not put food in their grumbling stomachs. "I think I just saw a Blight rabbit." _Blight bunny!_ "All the animals seem to be Tainted."

"Tis strange to have so many wolves, and none of the giant spiders which make their dens here," Morrigan said. "Perhaps they are immune to the Taint, and so are driven from their homes like the humans?"

"Do you think that the dog is immune?" Elissa asked, stroking her pet's bloody muzzle. "He's made a feast out of many corrupted creatures, but I haven't seen any signs of the wasting sickness."

"I seem to recall that he took a big chunk out of the ogre."

"And that squirrel did not seem normal."

"Too spiky," Alistair corroborated.

Morrigan shrugged. "I do not know the answer. Mother plied him with many kinds of potions while you were unconscious. It is possible that she sought to offer him the same kind of protection that your Grey Warden ritual gives you."

"What do you know about the Joining?" Alistair tried to school his face to blankness, but his voice betrayed his emotion.

"It is not as secret as your order would make it out to be. Everyone knows that the Wardens are the only people protected from the Taint. The records left behind by the old Warden mages indicate some of the particulars of the ritual. Time, however, took away much before Flemeth could preserve them. Do not worry. I cannot make copies of you." She smirked, tossing her staff from one hand to the other. He gave a mental sigh of relief. _She doesn't know about the Calling._

"I for one wouldn't mind a few more Wardens running about," pacified Elissa. "Hunger is making fools of us all. Come along dog, let us find a nice fat wood duck."

They talked to distract themselves from the hunger, the exhaustion, the mind numbing monotony. Morrigan quickly grew sick of their company, and said as much. Alistair didn't care. None of her animal forms were helpful in fetching them supper.

"Why do you call him _dog_?" he asked Elissa. They were much further along, finally out of the Hinterlands and onto a proper dirt road. The first sight of home had raised their spirits, even though it was a dim one, in the fading light of a bloody sunset. The trees stood as black skeletons. "Don't you like his name?"

"He doesn't have one."

"Why not? I thought all mabaris had names, like people. Isn't it bad luck?"

She looked perplexed. "Not in Highever. I've never heard that before." She shifted the weight of her pack to her other shoulder. "Did you hear that, dog? You must be the source of our misfortunes." It barked back at her. "This one's mother was called Champion. She was a beautiful purebred bitch; gigantic and absolutely scary as hell. Champion was my father's most faithful hunting hound, and her sire was with Bryce during the war, I think. My father always had a special relationship with his hounds. Called me _Pup_ from the day I was born."

"Maybe he thought you were dog-faced."

"Hey!"

"Joking, really."

"Say that to me when I have a sword in my hand again," she grinned.

"I wouldn't dare."

"So. Yes. Champion was quite old by the time she had her only litter. Father was away in the capital. She wasn't intended for breeding, see, because she got her hip all mangled in a tussle with a bear. It was hard for her, as it often is with purebreds. Only whelped three pups, and she rejected the smallest one."

"They usually cull them, don't they?" Alistair recalled, thinking back on his hazy memories of Teagan and the Redcliffe kennels.

"Yes. I was fifteen, and quite stubborn. Demanded that they give me the chance to raise him myself. Fergus told me it was impossible, but I was in love with the little thing. We called him Runt. I made a bed for him out of blankets in my bedroom, and pestered Nan until she helped me bottle feed him."

Alistair glanced to the hulking dog at her flank. "Well, he's not little any more."

"And he wouldn't be," agreed Elissa, with her mouth quirking up at one side. "Turns out I'm not terribly motherly, and stubbornness cannot solve all ills. Fergus was right. Runt died within the week. The pup was sick, and Champion could smell it."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Father presented me with another pup from the litter when he returned to Highever. He missed the whole spectacle."

"And you never named him?"

"Aye. I suppose I was grieving, or sulking maybe. But I took much better care, didn't I, boy?" The mabari barked happily.

"Well, he's a member of the team, now."

"Team?"

"Yes, team. And he deserves a name. I can't just go 'you there, dog fellow' forever, can I?"

She laughed. "Very well. What shall we call him?" Her green eyes were bright, and he found himself unable to resist her smile. _Damn_. _This better be good, Alistair_.

"Well, he is a dog, and he is a Grey Warden... I think we should call him Barkspawn."

"That is the most ridiculous name I've ever heard. I love it. How about it then, Barkspawn?" The dog howled. "You like it then?" He collapsed in the dust, playing dead. "Oh, you are so dramatic!"

She was walking close beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush, if his shoulders hadn't been covered in metal. His hands fidgeted, fingers flexing. "Lissa..." _Would it be stupid if I reached out and took her hand? Yes, yes it would. I could say that I'm afraid of the dark. Ugh. My brain isn't working._ "We should stop and make camp. It's getting too hard to see." They had not discussed their particular nighttime arrangement, as it were, but the nights were much less cold with them lying together.

She shook her head. "I couldn't bear trying to sleep this hungry. It would make the nightmares that much worse."

Nightmares. Alistair was all too familiar with them, even before Ostagar. "I should tell you—"

"We have found the place we were seeking," Morrigan interrupted, POOFing back into human form.

Elissa squinted. "Lothering?"

"Do you see the smoke? Beyond that cottage 'tis the Imperial Highway. This will lead you into town."

"Chimney smoke means people," Alistair frowned. "All the farmholds we've passed have been abandoned or destroyed. Do they not know they are in danger? Why are they still here?"

"Cheer up, maybe they're bandits," said the girl.

Morrigan disagreed. "Not here. That is not the home of a simple farmer."

"Then who?"

"Useful sorts."

It was a cosy place to the eye, a house on a hill with warm yellow light in the windows. Laundry flapped on a clothes line between a tree and a well. As they drew closer, he could make out a large garden, fenced to keep out rabbits. It was almost... too inviting. Something wasn't right. Alistair began to feel sick, anxious, and wondered if the whole of the darkspawn horde was nearby.

"Stop!" he yelled, snatching Elissa by the hand. "We can't go there!" He tried to pull her back.

She wrenched free. "Alistair! What in the Maker's name is the matter?" He lunged, wrapping his arms around her waist, and this time successfully lifting her back several feet. Desperation filled his senses, and he began to sweat profusely. Elissa kicked at him. "Morrigan, what the hell? What's wrong with him?"

The witch laughed, watching the scene. "I did not know Malcolm was so clever by half. I am sorry to have underestimated him so."

"What?" she panted. "Alistair, stop it, Maker's beard, let go of meee!" This was a bad place. He had to protect her from the bad place. There were ogres and sloth demons and archdemons in that house.

"This is the home of apostate mages. T'would seem that they have warded against templars. A curse of fear. T'is interesting that his instinct to save you overrides his need to flee."

"Well— ach— how do we stop it?"

_"We..._ cannot. I will have to speak to a resident mage, to lift it. T'is so amusing, though."

"Laugh later. Help now!" Accepting the responsibility while trembling with laughter, the witch went to knock at the door.

"Apostates!" growled Alistair, holding her as tight as a vice. "Morrigan's tricked us, she wants us flayed alive by abominations." He had never been so sure of anything in his life. "This is for your own good." If only he had completed his templar training! He knew the magical rites to disarm a mage, but without lyrium he lacked the potency to take on a whole cabal of blood mages by himself.

"You've been cursed," said the struggling woman in his arms. "You're not yourself. Please, you're going to crush m-me!"

The ogre? Where was the ogre? It was so dark. No, the ogre was dead? She had been crushed by the ogre and she was dead? Alistair kept backing up, disoriented.

" _Elissa, what's happening? You looked out."_

" _You shouldn't have to... I'm sorry."_

" _What's happening. Tell me!"_

" _The darkspawn have the field. I couldn't see what happened. We are surrounded now, by the bulk of the horde. There's no chance of escape for us."_

A voice cried out: "Templar. I release you!" The chains of fear fell from his heart, and his head began to throb.

"Oh, holy hell!" he hissed. His arms went slack. "What in Andraste's ashes just happened?"

Elissa dropped to the grass. "You tried to kill me," she accused, heaving for breath.

"Sorry!" A young woman rushed to join them. "I am so sorry. I couldn't remember the words!" She was handsome, though barely to the age of maturity by her looks. She had a round, full face and a pleasingly plump shape, and glossy black hair. In her hands was a well tended staff, possibly antique. "Father designed the spell so that a group of templars would turn on each other," she explained. "Though I'd never seen it in action until today."

"I'm not a templar any more," sighed Alistair. "Your spell should be more particular."

He tried to assist Lissa up, but she rejected him. "I can help myself, thanks." She scrambled to her feet. Or, was she scrambling away from him? _Great, now she hates me. Properly hates me. Fucking mages._


	4. Hawkes

The plump girl fluttered her hands, as though she wanted to help but didn't know how. Their dog set to sniffing about her shoes, interested in new scents. "I am sorry. We don't get many visitors like you here. Ser Bryant's people do not leave the village proper."

The wind changed, blowing sweet wood smoke in their direction. From the cottage, another woman approached, with Morrigan now beside her. She was equal parts severe and striking, and though she was gray-haired now, she must have been a great beauty in her day. Truly, both strangers dressed more elegantly than any freeholder woman Alistair had met. Elissa rolled her shoulders, straightening to adopt a noblewoman's posture: back arched, breasts high, hands poised. Was it an unconscious habit, or a deliberate choice? "Are you the mages of this house?" She smoothed her hair back behind her ears.

"Just me, actually. My father passed on three years ago."

"I am Lady Elissa Cousland of Highever," said she. There was a touch of something in her voice, kindness, sympathy, but authority. _She's angry_ , he realized. _At me? Or at them?_ He had only known her for a handful of days, but cool fury was new. In the most miserable of conditions she flickered manic between cheerfulness and grief, but never this.

"My lady." The girl executed a perfect curtsey.

"The man you snagged in your net is Ser Alistair." She indicated with a careless gesture.

Alistair waggled his fingers sheepishly. "Hullo. It's just Alistair. Not a templar any more, promise."

"And you must know our Morrigan."

"Indeed!" beamed the girl. "Any friend of Morrigan is a friend of ours. I am Bethany Hawke. And this is my mother, Lady Leandra of House Amell."

"Bethany!" the older woman scolded.

"They aren't here to hurt us, Mother," said Bethany. "Morrigan will vouch for that."

"Will I?" said Morrigan dryly.

Elissa gave pause, lips moving silently as she worked something out. "Amell. I have heard that before. That's not Fereldan... Oh! You're from the Free Marches! I have a friend there. He's very interested in heraldry, draws me pictures in all his letters. Let's see... he's better at this than I... but I think it was falcons combattant on a sable field." She revealed a small smile, but it did not meet her eyes. "Or are they hawks?"

"Very good, very good indeed!" Leandra approved. "I'm from Kirkwall. Many Fereldans, especially nobles, came to the free cities during your rebellion against the Orlesian Empire."

Alistair said, "But you did the opposite. Because your husband was a mage?"

"So he was. Come inside and get warm. We were just about to have supper; if you're not too hungry, there should be enough for all of us," Bethany invited.

Leandra sniffed, lips curling as she caught their earthy smell. "Perhaps a bath? Leave your pet outside."

The women took their turns first, of course. Fereldan custom dictated that girls and women had the water first, when it was cleanest, though he was under the impression that they would each have the luxury of fresh water, tonight. No one had asked him to fetch any, either, which was twice a luxury.

Much as he was itching for a wash, Alistair was used to waiting his turn. In the monastery, the youngest boys had to fetch and carry for their senior brothers, to build strength and humility, just as the oldest waited hand and foot on the priests, to learn chivalry and obedience to the female leaders of the Chantry. Fully commissioned templars knew that they served all. Those who struggled to conform, who were prideful or willful or lustful, who were sympathetic to apostates, who were misogynistic, or Maker forbid _sadistic_ , were beaten down and remade into Andraste's holy warriors.

A templar could not be weak. He could not be susceptible to bribery, or temptation, or any vice which might allow him to drop his guard. As Alistair had been told over and over, they were the soldiers standing between the demons and the weak mages of the Circle. They were necessary to the safety of Thedas. He didn't necessary agree with anything the Chantry had to say about anything. If he did, he wouldn't have agreed to enter the unsecured dwelling of a family of apostates. The Revered Mother had not been able to touch him, physically, not with the protection of his bloodline, and a million dirty dishes weren't enough to win him to her side. He eagerly gave in to his temptations: warmth, and food, and the possibility of sleep. Warmth was enough at first, but the cold had been a hidden blessing, masking the severity of his body aches. Or perhaps the cold had caused the ache. _Chicken and the egg._

He took in the overall effect of the home while Elissa bathed in privacy, behind a screen in a small antechamber. There were two bedrooms and an open hearth-facing loft above, which had been converted into a third sleeping place. In the kitchen, which was the heart of the home, a fire burned in the generous hearth. An enormous oak table was crammed into the space, gleaming from a fresh oiling. In a nook away from the door, there appeared to be some kind of alchemical laboratory. He recognized only some of the implements for potion making: a magicked flame; a stone pestle; a series of fragile vials; a basket full of plants, pulled up roots and all. He recognized deathroot, but none of the others. Wasn't an expert in plants, really. In the dark, he had assumed that the garden was for vegetables, but he might have been wrong.

The young mage, Bethany, was a powerful elementalist, as it turned out. Alistair had not met a mage in the Circle half as naturally gifted. She could conjure water as easily as fire; there was a large brass tub just perfect for a soak. Now, this was the kind of useful magic which Alistair could support. No flying off as a stupid little bird. Just fresh, steaming water. And clean towels. And soap that smelled neither of lye nor lard.

 _I would happily fight darkspawn until my Calling-day if I had a bath like this. Deep Roads? Pah. Get a fat little wife in the mountains, warm house to come home to at week's end... I like dwarves. A few days in the dark, a few days feasting on the surface. Chicken in the pot. No worries about having any children. Unless she got lonely and took up with a neighbor. Would I raise a bastard? What am I saying, of course I would..._ His head slid back until his chin broke the surface tension of the water.

 _Smells like lavender. How do you get lavender oils in the South Reach? Maybe she makes them herself. Leandra, she looks like she farts flowers. Huh. Water's getting cold. I think I dozed off._ He stood up, and the water poured down off his shoulders and chest. _I've gone all wrinkly, eugh. How long have I been in here?_

Vaguely, he could hear the sound of female voices in another room. He toweled off, making note of some interesting bruises on his calves. His chest was smooth, no marks, not a single indication that he had been fatally injured. _That Flemeth, she's scary, but she does good work! You'd think that Lis would have a big fat puckered scar, right in the throat, but nothing's there. Hey, where are my clothes?_ _Sneak-thief mages!_ He cast about the tiny room. These were not his clothes! Sure, they belonged to some man, but not him. Unfamiliar: soft brown trousers and a woolen shirt. _Well, I can't go naked._

"Whose are these?" he asked as he joined the party at table. He finger-combed his damp hair. "They're very good! I mean, I didn't expect them to fit so well. We must be the same size."

"Those belong to my twin brother," explained Bethany. "Mother made me boil yours." She pointed to the roiling cauldron on the fire.

Leandra turned her nose up. "You are soldiers, and soldiers bring lice."

Alistair chuckled. "Point taken." _Flower farts. For an apostate's mother, living in hiding, she sure is sure of herself. I guess you'd have to be, to agree to this life._

"Here. You should eat." Bethany passed him a wooden bowl full of some kind of Fereldan stew, with a spoon in it. Heedless of its temperature, he took a large bite of the stuff: brown, mushy, unidentifiable meat and veg, and salted to death. Neither woman was much of a cook, apparently, but this suited him just fine.

"Delicious," he sighed.

"Your friends were telling us that it's been some days since you've had a full meal or a peaceful night's rest. Please eat as much as you'd like. We have bread and cheese, and dried fruit, when that is gone."

Alistair's stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard by all. "Really, we couldn't impose further," he muttered around a mouthful of food.

Leandra folded her hands in her lap. "Nonsense. You would do the same for a stranger in need. We can afford to be generous. We have fed many who flee from the south."

"I didn't meant to suggest..." He pursed his lips, stumped. _Anything I say, they're going to hate me for, because I was a templar_.

"You think of apostates, and you think of blood mages," suggested Bethany quietly. "Or witches, dancing under the full moon. But we are just normal people, trying to live normal lives. Look at Morrigan, look at me. We are part of families who love us. We've never been part of a Circle, but we're not abominations."

_Well, you, maybe. Can't really vouch for Morrigan, now can you?_

Elissa sat between Bethany and Morrigan. Her wet hair had been brushed smooth, and shone like new copper coins. She was wearing someone's old nightdress, which hung wraith-like off her slender wrists. He tried to catch her eye, but she would not look up from her mug of hot cider. It was difficult to tell if she was listening, or off in her head.

Morrigan appeared as poised as ever, as though not a feather had been ruffled. In fact, she appeared to be enjoying herself. Alistair would have called her among friends, if he thought she was capable of having such a relationship. She wore a borrowed dress of pale green, old and well mended, which bore enchantment. It was likely it had belonged to Bethany before the shapeliness of her adult body made it too small. Not that he was considering Bethany's shapeliness. Especially not the round curve of her backside. _Ahem._ The color made Morrigan seem more venomous than usual. Which posed a question: "How did your family come to know Morrigan, Lady Leandra?"

"Please. Despite what Bethany told you, I haven't been a member of House Amell since the night I ran away with Malcolm."

"We conduct mutually beneficial arrangements," interjected their mage companion. "Malcolm Hawke died when Beth was in a vulnerable, nay, _volatile_ age. I was only a few years older, but my magic is less explosive."

Bethany explained, "I was fifteen. Mother would have had to send me to the Circle. Morrigan was the only other apostate we knew."

"Why not send her to First Enchanter Irving? He's a kind and reasonable man, he would have understood."

"Malcolm never wanted that! He never wanted that life for any of his children!" Leandra insisted passionately. Her fists clenched and released. Bethany hung her head. "Sometimes he saw it as a curse. But he wanted his daughter to be free. My cousin, Revka, has a child in five different Chantry Circles. They will not allow them to be together. The last time it was safe for her to write to me, she told me that her dear little Solona was taken to Irving. What sort of life is that, to never know your family? I asked Morrigan for assistance."

"It's hard at first, when they take you, but it gets easier. It might have been better." _It would have been better_ , thought Alistair. _She_ _would be safer in the Circle. I would never let a child around Morrigan. She'd probably eat it._

"I was scared, then, still a child. Mother may not agree, but I think differently now." Beth lifted her head, and stared Alistair in the face. There was a sweet fire that barely scratched the surface of what she was capable of. He found himself intrigued, and tracked her as she rose from table. "However, my siblings would never let us be parted, and I love them."

"I cannot see why anyone would let her go. T'would have been a waste of her potential not to help. She has harmed none, and done good for many. And we have continued to trade." Morrigan continued, "Madame Hawke is the poison-maker in Lothering."

His stew caught in his throat; he choked. "Guh. Ow." _She did that on purpose!_

"Now, Morrigan, when you say it like that, you suggest that I might do some harm to my guests," Leandra smiled peacefully.

"T'would never suggest. Just recently I was telling the Wardens of your particular talents."

"Wardens?" interrupted Bethany. Elissa glanced up. "You mean, you were in the battle?"

"We were," Alistair agreed. "Why?" There was suddenly tension in the air, caution. The sort of feeling at the base of his spine that had him wanting for a weapon.

"My other two children went with the South Reach regiments to fight for King Cailan." Something shadowed Leandra's face. She spoke quickly. "Marian and Carver Hawke. Do you know of them? Black hair?"

"They look like me."

"Carver is a warrior, about your build— those are his clothes. He's very serious for a boy his age. He wanted to make a name for himself, to make a career in the army. I knew I should never have allowed them to go."

"Our sister Marian went to protect him. She is like you, my lady, a rogue. Stronger looking, and maybe taller..." Bethany sized Elissa up. "Not that you do not seem fully capable of your duties."

"She's got a sharp tongue, our Marian, but she's more clever than any of us. Just like her father. You couldn't miss her."

Morrigan appeared genuinely troubled. "I did not think of them going."

"Arl Bryland has not returned, and many think him dead. His family has fled for Denerim."

"There's been no word on the survivors, only stories of massive casualties."

"Leonas was at White River with Rendon Howe and my father," said Elissa. Her voice was so quiet, Alistair had to strain to hear her. "Where the rebel army was slaughtered. He would never speak of it. All dead..."

Alistair knew little of the story himself. There had been but fifty survivors, and all were said to have come from it changed men. Some crueler, some more cowardly, but some braver than before. Battle fatigue, Eamon said, from the horrors they had seen. _And that was men fighting men._

"What she means," he explained, "is that it was bad. Really bad. The king is dead. But, I'm sorry, I don't know about South Reach."

Leandra's hand fluttered to her throat. "Bethany has been to the village ever day, looking for news. Everyone is. Lothering is swamped with refugees— more people than information. We heard of Cailan's passing. The Teryn of Gwaren has been made the new regent."

 _No._ "I'm sorry, I must have misheard just now. Did you say— He's _what_?"

"Evidently word has not leaked out about your teryn at the battle," Morrigan said. But even she looked disturbed.

"What need has Queen Anora of a regent?" Lissa asked her cup. "Everyone knows she's ruled fine without Cailan's involvement these five years."

This cut the wound deeper. How could she say such a thing, about his own dead brother? "You'll mind your tongue when you speak of your king." His words, his voice, sounded strange even to _his_ ears.

"He's dead, Alistair, he isn't to know. More will say worse."

"But not us. Not!" He slammed his fist on the table. The dishes rattled. "Not when his murderer takes his throne."

Leandra recoiled. "Murderer? Teryn Mac Tir?"

Hate was an ugly beast in his stomach. "King Maric gave him that name, when he was a hero. He doesn't deserve it now."

"Sit down, Alistair!" Elissa barked. He hadn't even realized he'd been standing. He met her eyes in challenge, wanting a fight. Fighting was simple, it meant he didn't have to think. Didn't have to think about Duncan. Didn't have to think about Cailan. But she did not blink, green pools, still waters. Then, gently, softer, "You're infringing on the generous hospitality of our hosts."

He exhaled— collapsed onto the bench. Head in hands. _What's wrong with me?_ "Sorry."

"As you can see, it has been a terribly trying experience for all of us," Elissa said smoothly. "We're burning candlelight. Would it be possible to take you up on your offer of a night's rest?"

Graciously, Leandra still offered them her home. "Surely. We can talk again in the morning, with cooler heads. Bethany will sleep with me. Morrigan and yourself can have the girls' bed, and Alistair may take the loft."

Elissa stood to gather her things. "It might be better if we let Morrigan have a bed to herself."

Bethany, pulling laundry from the pot, looked confused. "But—" She connected some impossible dots. "Oh of course, you'll have your place with your husband."

 _Andraste's feet_. Alistair spoke through his teeth. "Yes. Husssband. That's me. I'm her husband." He followed the red-headed woman.

Morrigan laughed. "Tis such a _loving_ couple."

The loft belonged to the absent boy— Carver. He was like a ghost, following Alistair around the Hawke residence, as though daring him to behave as a templar should. It was an uncomfortable notion, that even indoors, there were eyes in the dark. The space contained a simple bed— straw-stuffed mattress and rope lattice support- that was just big enough for two. There was no indication of taste, of personality, of belief. In some ways it was very much like a soldier's garrison, although even in the monastery dormitory, there were personal items beside each bed and in every trunk. The lack of privacy was the same. Alistair could not begin to make sense of the enigma of the Hawkes. Not without sleep. Tonight, he could sleep even through Barkspawn's sad baying outside.

"Listen. I know, I know, sin of omission, but I'm still not comfortable lying to the people giving us shelter," he said quietly to Elissa as she clamored onto the bed. He stood at the rail, watching Bethany spell their clothing dry. It was efficient. Why ever bother with the drying line outdoors? Perhaps it was the smell the magic produced, like the air after lightning. It made the little hairs on your neck stand up.

"You're the one who lied. I just didn't correct her." She yawned. Her eyes were rimmed with red. He imagined he looked similar. "If you can believe, the bed in the girls' room is even smaller. Must be very intimate, Marian and Bethany."

"What an insinuation," he clucked, shaking his head. "They must have been frantic with worry for weeks. So little news, and all of it terrible. You know, if you didn't want to spoon the witch, you could have made her be a cat again."

" _You_ go bunk with her, then. Stop fobbing her off on me. And tell her you're going to 'make' her. I'd like to see that." Lissa rolled onto her side, tucking her knees to her chest. "Or sleep on the floor."

 _Difficult woman._ "For the Maker's sake, at least get under the covers."

"No. Don't feel like it."

In one impatient move, he yanked the blanket roughly out from under her. She squeaked when he dislodged her, surprised. She looked even more surprised when he tucked her in. "Are you going to let me in to your bed, Missus Alistair?" he asked, leaning down, hands pressing the bed on either side of her shoulders. He was pinning her with the blanket, though he did not consider this. "I am so tired."

"Never going to happen in a thousand years."

"What?" he recoiled, disappointed. Maker, he wasn't sure if the floor was better than Morrigan, or worse.

"Never going to be anybody's 'missus'. Least of all, yours!" But she grinned. "I'm against coverture. I want to die a Cousland."

"Huh? What are you—" He decided he didn't care. "I only understand about half the things you say. Budge over." She rolled, and he took the spot her body had warmed. It felt disturbingly nice. That is, to lie on something soft. He was used to camping, and marching, and yes, sleeping on the ground, but there had always been enough other people to have a proper watch. He had never needed to sleep in armor before Ostagar.

"No funny stuff." She squirmed to get comfortable.

"Hm?" He was half-asleep already.

"It won't be cold, tonight..." she muttered. "I don't want you to... We won't need to do the things we do, when we have to. You know?"

A knot formed in his stomach. "Got it. Sword in the bed."

"Huh?"

Lightly, trying to disguise his sore feelings, he asked, "You've never heard that saying?"

"I don't know. I don't even remember my mother's name right now," she admitted. But she gave him her attention. "Tell me the story. It'll help me fall asleep."

He could see her bare shoulders, the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath. It was just too much to watch her, without armor shielding them, in a real bed. He had finally taken a woman to bed. Just not in the conventional sense. Not that his cock was giving up hope. He was getting hard just by proximity. Was she bare, under the nightdress? It was quite a bit of material. Were her smallclothes downstairs?

"Okay," he whispered, then turned and blew out the candle. Maybe if he couldn't see, he wouldn't think. Lust was driving him to distraction. Surrounded by beautiful women— Morrigan, Bethany, Elissa— and not a moment to himself for a private release. Even Leandra crossed his mind. He refused to touch his complaining erection; to do so here, without Elissa's permission, would be an unforgivable violation. _Later_ , he promised himself. He tried to think of less enticing things, like genlocks and giant spiders. Genlocks and giant spiders, touching each other sensuously. Ah. Disgusting, but better.

"Well?"

"In certain politically-motivated marriages, ones I'm sure you've heard of, the woman is decidedly less keen on being a bride to her new husband. Maybe she finds him repulsive, maybe she has a lover with whom she desires to be faithful. Maybe she prefers the company of other women. But the man respects his bride, even if they do not love each other. He metaphorically, or maybe physically, depending on who is telling it, puts a sword in the bed. Meaning that he will not touch her in their marriage bed unless she allows him."

"I wish someone had told this story to my mother, when she suggested marrying me off to that squire, Dairren."

Alistair scoffed. "What is it with you and squires? You're distracting me."

"Don't I always?"

"Yes." He squeezed his eyes shut. "If you don't want me to tell the story, I'll just go to sleep."

"No," she put her hand on his chest. He shivered, stomach pulsing. "No, tell me?"

"The old legend goes that there were two brothers, who were identical twins, and had a special talent, so they could talk to their mabari hounds, and understand what they were saying. They were hunters, rogues like you."

"Are you making this up?"

"No. Of course not! No more interruptions, Lis, or I swear I won't ever tell you the rest."

"Deal." She put her head on his chest. So that she could hear better? Her closeness was a debilitating menace.

"Um... Let me see. Uh. Well. The two brothers went their separate ways in the world. One brother stayed in the woods and became the best archer in the Brecilian Forest, better than any elf. The other brother came to Highever and discovered that a terrible high dragon had taken the Teryn's daughter to be his slave, and that any one who tried to rescue her died in gruesome ways."

"Hmph. The teryn's daughter can rescue herself."

"Well, she doesn't have any weapons in this story. And she's _not_ you, Lis, I swear my nan told it to me just like this."

"Let me guess? The other brother went and saved her."

"Almost." Alistair chuckled. "Actually, he tried to fight the dragon all by himself, but since he was a lightly armored rogue, it ripped his head right off."

"Ooof. I bet that hurt."

"It did. And it was bloody. But his talking mabari was very smart, and he went and fetched a magic herb, which brought his master back to life."

"It put his head back on?"

"Yup."

"Good herb!"

"Really, the best herb. So the dog helped his master finish off the high dragon, and they saved the Teryn's daughter. The lady was very grateful, and married him for being the only person who could complete this impossible task. And when the old teryn of Highever died, she became the Teryna and her husband became the Teryn-Consort... You still awake?"

"Mmm."

"Then one day, the Teryn was traveling on business through the Forest, and he met a witch. She was evil, like all witches, but she tricked him by pretending to be nice. Then, she turned him and his dog into statues. A little while later, the Hunter brother came to Highever, because he heard a story about a dragon. He was so surprised when the townsfolk treated him like the missing Teryn, because he didn't know of his twin brother's new position. They paraded him to the castle, and the Teryna was so happy to see him that she dragged him off to bed."

"But that's..."

"Exactly. When the Hunter discovered that his brother, the real teryn was missing, he traced his route. He knew that Forest better than the elves did, and so he found the witch. But he wasn't taken in by the witch's lies, and he killed her with an arrow before she could cast a single spell. The spell broke, and he rescued his twin brother and the dog. But when the brothers got back to Highever, the Teryn learned that his brother had slept with the Teryna, and he him executed in secret. Cut his head off."

"Is that it?"

"Hold on, almost. The Teryna never knew that she had taken the wrong man to bed. She didn't know about the twins at all. So she asked him, why one night he had refused to be intimate with her. He scared her, she said, by putting a sword between them in the bed."

"Oh! I get it now."

"The Teryn was very upset, because his brother hadn't raped his wife after all, and he'd rescued him from the witch, too. But the mabari knew what to do; he went and got that special herb, and brought the hunter back to life."

"And put his head back on?"

"Of course. There are no undead in my stories."

"It would be more interesting with undead heroes."

"It wouldn't be as romantic."

"I bet necromancers are either really romantic or really crazy. You ever meet one?"

"No. Have you?"

"Uh uh. Probably never will. They're exceedingly rare anymore. Any apostate who did that kind of magic would get all kinds of attention from the Chantry."

"Yeah. We've got enough problems with legions of tainted creatures without adding legions of undead to the mix."

"Maybe they'd fight each other for us," she said sleepily.

He tucked an arm around her. "Hey, Lissa?" The way she was arranged, with her head tucked against his chest, she could probably hear his heart beating. He willed himself calm.

"Hey, Alistair."

He chewed his lip. "Did I hurt you?"

She shrugged. It felt like a wiggling movement against him in the near pitch dark. Her voice came out very small and very weary. "I was actually more angry with Morrigan than I ever was with you. She purposefully lead us to a place where she knew there might be traps. She let you get cursed, and did nothing to stop it."

"I totally lost control. It's like I was reliving the Tower of Ishal, but this time, I was the ogre."

"Alistair, we... we died," she said bluntly. "That's really hard to deal with. I can't think about it yet. I haven't even figured out how to keep food in my mouth with the Blight marching up on our asses. I've never done any of this before; I didn't even want to _be_ a Grey Warden. We're supposed to be these important heroes, but we're refugees! So I get it. If I had some curse that made me crazy-afraid lobbed at me, I'd probably start stabbing people with that stupid little knife that I'm passing off as a dagger." She sighed. "I don't have a savior complex to fall back on. That seems like a prerequisite for the job."

"Wow. You're right." He felt cold.

"Alistair..."

"Do you have any faith in us at all? Are we just going to die?" He swallowed. "Again?"

"I have faith in..." She was silent for a long moment. "I have faith in things seeming better in the morning."


	5. Comfort

The small window in the loft of the cottage faced west, and so only a little light shone through. The sandy haired man woke peacefully, but was nearly impossible to judge what time it might be. Even in the daytime, the kitchen below was dim and shadowed; the shutters were closed up tight. Alistair felt momentarily disoriented. He had been dreaming of his friends in the Grey, of getting roaring drunk in front of a hot fire and listening them chant a bawdy song about an dwarven whore. _"Give 'er copper, give 'er gold, she won't do as she is told, but you'll liiiiiiike it!"_

 _Where—? This isn't the Denerim Compound,_ he thought as he scrubbed the crust from his eyes. _Too quiet._ They never did have the good sense to let a man have his beauty rest— always stomping around before the dawn. He felt the touch of nostalgia, of loneliness, missing his dead comrades. But each day pain was a little lessened. Sorrow, the wrenching sickness that plagued each sleep and each waking, was weakening.

They say that time is the only healer. But time was not something they had in luxury. Today, he would have to rely on the gift of distraction, and sweet distraction came in the form of his bed-mate. Elissa Cousland was sprawled on her stomach, arms stretched out and buried under the pillow, face resting on the sheet. Her breathing was soft and deep, her mouth slack with sleep. She was drooling slightly, he realized with a grin. Alistair whispered, "A good look for you, Lis. No wonder the Maker gave you a noble birth. That's a face that belongs sleeping in a big goosefeather bed, tuckered out from, hm, let's see... riding to hunt and eating rich foods? What _do_ you nobles do all day?"

He sat up beside her, enjoying the scene. Looking at her, a different kind of funny feeling sprang up in his belly. Hot and tingly. "Listen, if Ferelden topples to the Blight, how about you and I go to Montsimmard, or someplace. I can become a gardener for some toity bastard duke and you will be the captain of his guard. A feather bed for each of us? No?" Her thick eyelashes fluttered, but she did not rouse at the sound of his voice. "What's that you say? You _like_ Ferelden?" He leaned down, close to her exposed ear. "Then I guess we'd better get up and save it."

"You talk too much, Warden," she grumbled, without moving or opening her eyes. "Five more minutes."

He vaulted off his side of the bed, bare feet striking cold wood planks; the shock was bright in his nerves. "Ah! Not a chance. I'll give you three, at most," he answered, hopping around, looking for his socks. Someone had brought them their clothes while they slept, and left them folded on the chair. "No. Do you know what I think? I think you'll get lazy," Alistair said decisively, pulling the covers back. She moaned. Her borrowed nightdress had rode up in the night, revealing the creamy skin on the backs of her thighs, the downy pale hairs on her firm legs... "Guh," he said. _Maker help me_. _I think I might be in trouble._

"What did you say?"

He licked his lips. _Scratch that, I_ _ **know**_ _I'm in trouble._ "I was saying that, um— one night in a bed again and you'll be wondering where your servants are. But I won't fetch your slippers!"

She rolled over, blearily looking to him. "Are you always this delirious in the morning?"

He abandoned this tableau, ducking behind the screen to change back into his things. Just has he was sliding his underthings over his morning wood, Alistair came to the unfortunate realization that the pretty Bethany had seen them. "I can wash my own clothes!" he blurted, turning red. _Shit_. _Shitshittyshit._

"So that's a yes?" He heard her stand.

"I can do it myself," he continued on, lamely. _I have no control over my mouth. Things just come out._ He yanked his shirt over his head.

"Never said you couldn't," she answered, confused but decidedly amused. "I'm sure they taught you all about it in templar school. Though I heard you had lice." She poured water from the heavy clay pitcher into the basin, and reached for a washing cloth.

"Allegedly!" Alistair protested, coming around the screen. "Just because a few— okay, to be fair, many soldiers get it during campaign— no one can prove that I was one of them!"

"I'm assured that the Grey Wardens were a very clean lot. Duncan surely made you wash the blood from behind your ears, and such." She playfully swatted at him with the drenched cloth, when he came too close. "Did he inspect your fingernails, too? Shall I?"

"Hey, I was thoroughly wetted last night, thank you, I don't need to relive the experience!" He rubbed at his splashed face, retreating back. The bristle of his unshaven cheeks scratched his fingertips.

"Ah yes, your annual bath. Wouldn't want you to catch a demon from smelling too nice!"

"Maleficars do like their perfumes, their colognes, their spiced wine, that sort of thing— oh! Stop brandishing that weapon or I will be forced to disarm you!" She advanced on him, holding out the washing cloth as though it were a grenadier's device. "Stop, stop, you're getting my shirt all wet!"

"Take it like a man," Elissa smirked, dodging his swipes. She was nimble, a feline on a wall, quicker than he gave her credit. Her eyes were laughing all the while. _If this is a dance, I don't know the steps._ The blue satin ribbons which tied the neck of her gown had come undone, but the cut was extremely modest and showed only a sliver of flesh. The light fabric draped down over the apples of her breasts, long lines like that of a marble statue. Alistair knew men weren't supposed to see women who weren't their wives dressed like this. It was a virgin's shroud, an intimate thing, hiding and hinting to what was underneath. Briefly, he fantasized that the peaks of her breasts would be the pink of her mouth— like the rest of her— and then he hated himself for it.

"Okay, I submit," he croaked, when she got too close. His face felt flushed and hot. "Save the battering for the hurlocks, huh? Maker's breath, it's like you've forgotten there's a war on!"

Green eyes flashed hurt. "I'm sorry." She backed up.

"Lissa..."

"No, I'm sorry, I get it. Not behavior as becoming to two Grey Wardens. You're right." Elissa crossed the room, putting the bed between them.

 _Stupid, stupid thing to say, Alistair. You're really sooooo charming. Lusting after every woman you lay eyes on, then insulting them for being nice,_ he berated himself. _I told her I wasn't a lech; I've made a real fool of myself!_ "I didn't mean it." But distracted as he was, it sounded insincere, even to him.

Her lips twisted. He read disgust there, in the lines on her mouth. "Go find Morrigan, tell her we're leaving. I need to dress."

"I need help with my armor."

She turned away. "Ask someone else."

"But I—"

"Go! Leave! Or figure it out yourself!"

Sour, and ashamed, he climbed down the ladder and went outside. The sky was cloudy, gray and dim, and in the light of day the house seemed less like a haven and more like a hovel. He scanned around out of habit while he struggled with assembling his armor. The grasses grew tall in the large field between the cottage and the Imperial Highway, a rather flimsy shield to official eyes. In fact, from this observation, he wondered how the Hawkes had never been discovered. It wasn't as though the villagers had never met them...

The Witch of the Wilds and her apostate apprentice were deep into conversation, sitting on the rim of the well. They had just finished a meal. The former was wearing the same green silk robes from the night previous, but it was evident that she had kept industrious while they slept: she had made some cuts to the shoulders and neckline, for what fashion he could not understand, and sown on some of her strange baubles. To this end, it suggested she was daring them to comment on her clothes again.

"Look who has finally decided to wake," said Morrigan, seeing him first. "Did you and your 'lady wife' rest well?"

He ignored her. He had only one thing on his mind. "Bethany, last night, you lied."

"What ever can you mean?" Her face suggested many emotions, but they flickered faster than he could decipher. He had thought her a sweet girl, a rare innocent mage, but he had been wrong! He knew better; he had been taught better.

"You said that Bryant's templars never leave town. But that's a lie! I know— everyone knows that Lothering is the templar staging ground for operations into the barbarian south. Quite frequently there are mages who think they can escape if they reach the Chasind folk, and the templars from Lothering are sent out to hunt them down through the Hinterlands." He looked from one woman to the other, before adding, "Others take missions to tangle with the hedge witches, though I suspect that none return from that fatal endeavor."

"I don't... I don't understand."

"How droll," said Morrigan, "tis a remarkable thing, watching an idiot compose an argument. If you will make an accusation, Alistair, then make one."

"Shut up, Morrigan. This house is right in the path of the templars! Believe me, I know, they're nothing if they're not tenacious bastards. Bryant is a just man, more interested in assisting the Chantry than in rooting out mages, but he still takes his orders from on high, and Knight-Commander Greagoir still shuttles the fanatics who can't play nice in Kinloch Hold down to Lothering. My point is, how have they not taken you?"

"You would slight the very ones who offered you food and shelter? Truly, now I know you _are_ the most ungrateful man in Ferelden." Morrigan placed herself between the Alistair and the girl.

"I demand an answer!"

"Stop now, while you can still save the tattered threads of your dignity."

"No, Morrigan, I would hear this," interrupted Elissa, sternly. In the azure armor of a Grey Warden, she emerged. No one had heard her footsteps. She struck an impressive figure, the blue contrasting with her fire-toned hair and flushed cheeks.

Bethany took a deep breath. "It's the work of my Father's wards. He spent years on the run from the templars, terrible years, and saw horrible things. He could not even tell us where he was born. They had to keep running, when Marian was just a babe. It was not impossible, with just one child, especially one as clever as my sister. But when twins came, it was much more difficult. When Carver and I were small, they decided we needed a place of permanence."

"Malcolm studied many things, useful things, in his journey. I wish I had taken the time to learn from him, alas," Morrigan's face softened, "I was not used to people. Our meetings were brief, and cautious. He was powerful. In a different life, he might have been a leader in a Circle. But he understood that magic should not be limited by the quivering fears of the mundane."

Bethany disagreed. "He wasn't like that— he just wanted his freedom. He didn't want us hurt. So he laid protections in the foundation of the house. Only those who already know it's here can find it. And templars who come too close turn on each other."

"But that's maleficarum. It's blood magic. To specifically target only templars— well I'm not sure how he managed it, to be honest— but it has to be blood magic." This was wrong, this was all wrong. _I put us in danger because I was so eager for creature comforts. A desire demon could have wiggled her purple fingers under my nose and I wouldn't have even noticed. Well, they say evil comes in the prettiest packages._ "How could I have been so stupid? Of course the witch would lead us straight to a blood mage!" he sneered.

"But I'm not a blood mage," Bethany argued. "He never taught me anything like that. I didn't mean for it to hurt you. How could I have known that my friend would bring a templar to our doorstep?"

"He is not a templar," said Lissa, stepping in, "Though it seems he has forgotten. We have no quarrel with you, Miss Hawke. Indeed, you have shown us nothing but kindness, and we are thankful."

"Thankful? She lied, Elissa! We slept under these so-called 'protections'. Who knows what they've done to us!"

"We took their help, and we would do it over again."

"You would consort with blood mages?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're an Andrastian! You know what a crime it is. They'd send us to the Aeonar, if they didn't save themselves the trouble and execute straight away." _A fancy title won't save you from the mage prison._

"If you mean would I take one for an ally, I— I would." Elissa held her head high. "I am a Grey Warden. Duncan told me that sometimes being a Warden requires unscrupulous means for the greater good."

 _She didn't even know him. Spoiled, selfish woman. How sheltered must you be to not understand the dangers of a blood mage?_ "Duncan would have never. You don't even want to be a Warden!" he snapped. "Just look at you. How long were you going to carry that armor around in your pack before you tried it on?"

"I didn't want it before. I'm wearing it now. Isn't that enough?" She looked him dead in the eye. Again, the swirling hatred rose up in him, the feeling that he couldn't laugh away. He could feel himself shaking with rage, and this girl was in his path. _I feel like I'm out of control. Like I've come back broken. It's not her that I'm angry with. But she needs to learn, or she's going to lead us all to fates much worse than death._

"You must decide, whether you wish to be a Grey Warden or a Cousland. You cannot be both."

The blow struck, visible on her countenance, and he felt some grim satisfaction in winning. But this was short lived: "It seems to me, the real contradiction is in _you,_ Alistair. Are you warden or are you templar?" Morrigan said, sashaying past him. "Your nature cannot manage two, it would seem. Decide quickly, if you want friends or not. See: Madame Hawke returns."

Elissa turned away from him. He felt rooted to the ground. _Is she right? She can't be right. What am I doing?_

"Lady Leandra, good morning. You have been to Lothering?"

The older woman was walking very quickly to them, red-faced from her exertions and slightly sticky looking. It appeared she had made the trip back at double speed. "I have news, but none of it good. You must leave immediately." Her voice was hoarse.

"What? What's happened, Mother?"

"I must drink. Please."

Bethany rushed to her mother's side and lead her to the well. She seated her and brought her water. After a few moments of tending, Leandra was prepared to speak to them. "The new regent has called the bannorn. Our bann has pulled his men out to join the Teryn's army in the east. Lothering is to be abandoned."

"What?!" Alistair exclaimed. "Loghain must take a stand here, in the south, before the Blight—"

"Everyone thinks so," agreed Leandra. "Rumors are flying fast and thick. The horde may be upon us in less than a week."

"Darkspawn? Here?" Bethany turned white as a sheet. "Impossible. But Carver and Marian aren't home yet!"

"There is the chance that they may not return," began Morrigan. "Practically—"

Elissa interceded. "No need to talk like that. I, too, am waiting for a sibling to return from Ostagar. The Hinterlands are thick with darkspawn, but perhaps they have gone toward Gwaren. Maybe my Fergus is with your family even as we speak."

"Of course," agreed Leandra. "We must not give up hope. The Maker will protect our loved ones."

"Were there any survivors in Lothering?" asked Alistair.

"Just rumors." She shook her head. "There are bandits on the king's road. Only the truly desperate have come here, expecting Arl Bryland's protection. I asked my friend Barlin what he knows. He shared a story with me which roughly correlated with what Morrigan told me: the general abandoned the king's men. But what no one can decide on are the details."

"What do you mean?"

"The official telling from Denerim is that the Grey Wardens lead King Cailan into a trap. Loghain saved his men by seeing through the ruse."

Lissa blanched, and stepped back, crossing her arms defensively across her chest. "Who would believe that?"

"Enough to make the story dangerous," said Alistair. "It would be easier to believe that a beloved hero saved his men from danger than to believe he would betray his own son-in-law." He gritted his teeth. "The Wardens have only been allowed back into Ferelden for the past twenty years, and only because we were allies to King Maric during the war. Many still see us as foreigners, and will lose no love."

"Free Marchers know better," said Leandra, "and the Orlesians, I suspect. The other nations will see this lie. Grey Wardens have always been a force of good."

"Not always."

"What now, Morrigan?"

"I have studied the histories. As I recall, the Grey Wardens were banished from Ferelden in what your chantry calls the Storm Age. Their crime t'was meddling in politics."

Alistair explained, "Grey Wardens aren't supposed to do get involved in politics. They must be neutral, a citizen of no land. This way they can freely cross into other countries, and not be seen as an invading force."

"Are you feeling neutral, Alistair?" asked Lissa, cracking a smile. "Is that what you intend to be?"

"I... no," he admitted.

"Then you _don't_ intend on going to Loghain and begging for his military assistance. Good, I was getting worried."

"Fool me once... I cannot allow Loghain's misdeeds to go unpunished. If that makes me a hypocrite, so be it. Maybe we're not very good Grey Wardens, but we are the last." He briefly returned her smile. Something eased in his chest.

"You must know," said Leandra, "that Loghain has outlawed the Wardens once more, for their supposed crimes in the battle. There is a bounty on your heads."

"Wonderful. Just what we needed, more complications."

"I'm surprised he thinks any of us are even alive," mused Elissa. "But it does put us in a predicament. Leandra, we must go. Our best chance is to get through Lothering and on to Redcliffe before the rumors catch up to us."

"I agree. Please, take some food before you go. You will find none in the village— the refugees have ravaged our reserves."

"Will you not come with us? Leandra, you would be safer in Redcliffe, and Bethany, the Chantry cannot touch a Warden mage."

"Me? A Grey Warden?" Bethany laughed. "Could you imagine? No, I'm sure you could use me, but I must stay with Mother."

"And we will stay here," Leandra determined. "I will not leave without all my children."

"But you will be in grave danger!" Elissa persisted. "If you do not leave soon, you will not be able to leave at all."

"My husband's magic will safeguard us until all Hawkes return to the roost. Of this I am sure. You don't know Marian— no Blight could touch her."

"That's just not—"

"Lis." He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "They've made up their minds."

"Foolish," scowled Morrigan. She picked up her staff and walked off, the dog following at her heels. _Not one for goodbyes, is she?_

The red haired Warden nodded. "At least let me pay you for the supplies. Even in a Blight, money is useful." She offered half the coins she had looted off the dead. It was more than generous, but he could see she was troubled.

They left the cottage in the midday sun, heading west on the dusty road to the village of Lothering. Their silhouettes seemed insignificant against the backdrop of the red hills. A spirit of melancholy filled him as he watched the two women waving farewell at a distance. He had accused the girl of a most heinous crime, and now she was probably doomed. What sort of a person did that make him? He had always known himself to be a cheerful and kind sort; but lately, he only saw the faces of the dead.


	6. Refugees

Under the clouded sky, feet kicking up the orange dust, a small group of outsiders made their way to the next sign of civilization: Lothering. It was a small trading crossroads, born where the Imperial Highway met the West Road, set in the rolling red hills which characterized this side of Lake Calenhad. Geographically, it was nearly the dead center of Ferelden, but most of the money to be scraped from the land was north, in the warmer climates of the region known colloquially as the Bannorn. Alistair had a good memory for maps.

This far south, the holds were small subsistence farms, and the banns were isolated. For sons and daughters born in the tiny hamlets, the life of a soldier was often more appealing than the lonely existence of a freeholder. Something about this place reminded Alistair of home, of Redcliffe. Maybe it was the color of the bloody earth, or the wind whistling in the swells. Maybe it was the stubbornness of the people who remained, generation after generation, to till the clay and raise crops.

During the hour-long walk from the home of the Hawkes to their village, the mabari tore through the fields and shrubs, spooking up hares and grouse. Despite the demurring of his mistress, she never missed a single shot with her bow. They worked in tandem with deadly efficiency, reading each others' signs and responding accordingly. _They're well practiced_ , he noted. _She did say he is a hunting dog._

Barkspawn knew better than to eat these kills, but while she removed her arrows and snapped necks, he feasted on the eggs in the nests. Happy, in his element, he licked goo and shell from his snout, trotting along beside them until he spotted more prey. "Why do you take more than we can use?" Morrigan queried, watching Elissa string another limp body onto a length of twine hanging from her pack. "I can freeze the meat with a spell, but t'will not keep long."

"It's for bartering," the other woman replied, "Leandra said there isn't much food left in the village. A fresh rabbit or a wild hen will be worth their weight in copper to the hungry."

"A practical idea," Morrigan approved. "Lend me your knife and I will help you clean them."

Elissa unsheathed her dagger, and when she did, she caught Alistair frowning. "Oh, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked, caught off guard. He had been silent so far on this trip, lost in thought.

He had traveled this region only once before, in the opposite direction, heading to the fortress of Ostagar. Things had seemed so different then. The Grey Wardens had camped with the army, full of life and good cheer, planning to meet up with Duncan once he returned from his recruiting missions. Every night, a strong drink and a good meal. Every day, a priestess who needed his assistance with some project. It hadn't taken long for Alistair to be sucked back into running errands for the Chantry again. Six months wasn't long to break a habit.

"Like I'm going to commit highway robbery. I'll be fair." She winced comically, drawing his attention. "I'll be fair- _ish_." Elissa shot him a crooked smile. "I felt bad, taking more food from Bethany's family."

"We paid dearly for your antics, Alistair. T'is to be expected. You are far too stupid to control your tongue," sniffed Morrigan. He rolled his eyes but didn't rise to her bait.

"But now that that attack of conscience is over, I am reminded that we need supplies. Tents, bedrolls, bandages, sundries for making various potions and poisons—"

"Poisons?"

"My sister-in-law is Antivan," she replied, as though that explained anything. Her eyes clouded. "Was Antivan. Never mind."

The Imperial Highway still bore the trappings of old Tevinter. Beside them, the crumbling ruins of the aqueducts. Above them, the graceful arches. They were crossing a bridge when they ran into an obstacle. A collection of carts and crates had been used to form a barricade. "Well that looks like a trap," he indicated in a soft voice, hoping that it wouldn't carry across the stone cobbles. "I don't think those carts were abandoned willingly."

"The dead tell that tale," agreed Morrigan.

A rabble of men lounged about before them. They were bronzed from days in the sun, like most laborers of the South Reach, but they had weapons. "They've killed a templar," he said, spotting the body on the ground in front of the barricade. They hadn't even bothered to hide it. "Six against one isn't fair."

"Look Alistair, real highwaymen," Elissa murmured, so that only he could hear. She seemed fairly amused by the coincidence. She passed him by, her dog at her hip and knife in hand. They had been warned of the possibility, but these were the first they had encountered on the road.

"Wake up, gentlemen! More travelers to attend to. I'd guess that woman is the leader," announced a stranger in well-used armor. His skin was as tanned as his leather. Alistair poised himself to reach for his sword, waiting for her move.

"Err... they don't look much like them others, you know. Uh... maybe we should just let these ones pass..." cautioned one of his fellows. By the accent, Alistair placed him as a local.

"Nonsense! Greetings, travelers!" addressed the bandit leader, in a clipped but friendly voice. There was no mistaking the diction of a Denerim native.

"Greetings, yourselves," smiled Elissa. She might have looked like she was batting her eyelashes at a handsome stranger, but he could see the tension in her neck.

Morrigan rapped her stave on the cobblestone road. "They are fools to get in our way. I say teach them a lesson."

"Now is that any way to say hello?" He tsked at the witch, apparently heedless of the danger. "A simple ten silvers and you're free to move on."

"Oh, but we're not refugees," explained Lissa, pushing her tangled red curls away from her face. The corners of her smile were hard. She twisted her blade carelessly in her hands, letting it catch the light. Like a seasoned soldier, she took good care of her weapons. Even a little knife like this one was sharpened to a keen edge. "You should listen to your friend."

"What did I tell you? No wagons, and this one is armed!"

"The toll applies to everyone, Hanric. That's why it's a _toll_ and not, say a refugee tax."

The simple minded one was convinced. "Oh, right. Even if you're no refugee, you still gotta pay."

Elissa shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. Seeing this subtle change was enough of a signal for him. "The thing is..." she said, wrinkling her nose. It was oddly charming, in an 'I'm-going-to-kill-you' sort of way. "We're something of tax collectors ourselves. And you haven't paid." In a blurred movement, she threw her knife. It plunged with an awful noise into the throat of the bandit leader. He collapsed to his knees in shock, gurgling and clawing at his neck as he bled out. _Maker's breath._ _That's one way to do it._

"Why would you do that!" gasped Hanric. "We was bein' reasonable!" The other bandits, alarmed, went for their weapons.

"Eh, you know, I didn't like his haircut," she quipped. Lissa took several steps back, allowing Alistair to step in front of her, shield at the ready. She pulled her bow.

"Sorry about my friend; she really doesn't care for extortion," he chuckled grimly, but wasted no time in smashing in his face.

Morrigan's ice spells and the bash of his shield made short work of it. The fear of facing a mage in battle did half the work for them. These men were not templars; none had probably ever fought magic before. Leather armor would not save you from a glowing-eyed sorceress. It was a horrible, unnatural way to die, shattered into frozen chunks of flesh and bone, but it was a quick end: no time for screaming. Those who turn and ran took an arrow between the shoulder blades. They left no survivors.

"What a mess," he said with disgust as he surveyed their handiwork. "I'm not sure even they deserved to die like this. We could have just scared them off."

"If you did not like it, you could have stood aside," retorted the dark haired woman, clearly not bothered in the slightest. "I merely facilitated your slaughter."

"You scared the piss out of them!"

"Did they deserve to die with dignity? At best, they were a nuisance. How would you prefer I kill them? As a giant spider?"

"Forget I said anything," he grumbled. "Got enough giant spiders in my life as it is." He hovered over the corpse of the dead templar. Grey skin, pale lips. The body was stinking but not bloated yet. Filmy eyes stared lifelessly back at him. "I wonder who this is?"

"Check his pockets," Elissa suggested, scavenging the scene for useful things. She was collecting arrows and coin and salable trinkets. The bandits had stolen much but hadn't found a buyer; it didn't help to rip off merchants.

He hesitated. "I don't want to."

"Don't tell me that still bothers you?" She joined him. "Hm, no pouches. Wait... here." Elissa snapped a chain free. How could she rifle through the things of a dead man and act as though it did not affect her? The smell, the maggots, the flies... Alistair could never get beyond the horror of it. It made sick bubble up in his throat... Not to mention the sacrilegious component.

"What have you found?" he asked, breathing through his mouth.

"A locket. Oh, see, there's something inside it." She unfolded a greasy brown bit of paper and began to read. " _I have been to his home in Denerim and found the trail_... _conspiracy_... _report_... Hm, strange."

"What does it say?"

She shook her head. "I don't really know. It's rambling. But it's meant to go to a Ser Donall in Lothering."

"Huh. I know Donall, he's a knight from Redcliffe. Would he still be here?"

"Don't know- We can ask around at the chantry."

"Excellent. I have always wanted to parade myself in the wolves' den," complained Morrigan. "How might you say it? 'Like a big piece of meat and magic'? Why perform errands for the dead?"

"He was a templar," scolded Elissa. "He deserves to be buried with the rites of his order. Why, this could have been our Alistair!"

Alistair shivered. "Thanks. That's a wonderful vision."

She straightened, and offered him the dead man's treasure. "If you disliked being with the templars so much, how come you stayed? I'm curious."

"Have you seen the uniform? It's not only stylish, it's well made," he deflected glibly. "I'm a sucker for good tailoring." He turned the locket over in his hands. It seemed familiar, but could not place it. Just a generic medallion of faith: the prophetess Andraste dressed in a cloak of stars.

Elissa glanced down at the dead templar, and feigned surprise. "Bespoke heavy plate?" They walked away from the carnage, laughing. She brought out that side in him— he wanted to please her. She could be charismatic, sweet, bitter, cruel, all in the span of minutes. It was dizzying to keep up.

"Oh, no, that's for in public. In private, we have these yellow and purple tunics, right? Much more comfortable, and you don't break the beds when you jump on them during a pillow fight."

"Here I've shared a bed with you, and not one pillow fight. I'm disappointed." She winked. "I'd like to see your form."

"I bet you would." He grinned back; his neck felt hot under his armor. "You don't really want to know about my being a templar, do you? It's really quite boring."

"Then make up something exciting."

"See, that's what I like about you. Being a templar isn't just chasing men in skirts and hiding behind priests, you know."

"Tis also hunting and killing," interjected Morrigan coldly. "One might forget, with all that _flirting_."

"Have you ever been hunted by the Chantry, Morrigan?"

"Several times. I am not alone in this; our conversation with Bethany revealed as much. A witch-hunter came to Lothering, once, and sought me out. To no end; he found nothing. I was long used to avoiding them. A mage has the advantage of distance; their dampening devices only work in a certain radius, and their abilities at short range. They rely on the element of surprise as well as strength."

"She's right. Unfortunately. This is why the Order keeps its methods secret."

"How have you learned these, say, 'anti-templar' countermeasures?" Elissa took a sip from the water flask.

"When I was a child, the templars would come again, and Mother would look at me and smile and say that the fun was to begin once more."

"Fun?" repeated Alistair. "How could it have been fun?"

"T'was a game. A little girl to scream and run and lure the templars deeper into the Wilds and to their doom." There was a glint of something in her eye, more than the usual challenge and insult.

"Did you kill them?"

"Not I. I believe, however, Flemeth relished the chance. They chose their deaths the moment they decided to hunt us."

Lissa said, "But you were a child."

"Indeed. Mother did not want me to know fear. I would have been angry, had I been denied the chance to play."

"You're lucky it was just was a game for you. It wasn't, for those men your mother killed. Most of them probably had no choice." Alistair clutched the medallion in his gauntlet tightly. _Mages give deaths with no honor._

"You pity them? If the Wilds have taught me anything, 'tis this: first you must survive. But please, regale us with the sad story of how you failed your religious instruction," she jeered.

"I never-" he whipped around, frustrated. "It was not the life I would have chosen."

Elissa pacified: "Do you want to talk about it?"

"When I was a boy, I dreamed of being a member of the king's elite guard. I suppose I fancied being a hero. But there was just one small problem: I'm a bastard."

Morrigan scoffed. "I could have told you that."

Alistair sighed. "Yes, yes, get it out of your system. I mean in the literal, fatherless sense. My mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle. She died giving birth to me."

Elissa sucked in breath between her teeth. "I'm sorry, Alistair. I didn't know." Even Morrigan— well, she looked like what passed for compassionate. Her black eyebrows knitted together.

"Well, I don't go around announcing it, as a rule. Arl Eamon raised me from birth, with the help of a legion of servants, of course."

"This Eamon, he was with you in the Fade," noted Morrigan. "I see now why you were so reluctant to be parted."

Alistair shrugged. "Was he? I cannot remember the dream— Anyway, when I was still quite young, the arl married an Orlesian woman. Her father had been the occupying governor of Redcliffe at the end of the war. Not a position many would relish. Eamon needed a wife, and Isolde knew the day-to-day operations of the castle. Maybe she loved him; I don't know."

"Many of the best matches have been made like that. King Maric and Queen Rowan, for example," explained Elissa. They walked at a slow, deliberate pace through the many tents and fires of the refugee camp. Women wept; babies fussed. Children cried for bread and home. It was a disheartening scene. "Over time, respect might turn into fondness or love. Or at least, that's the theory behind an arranged marriage. Most of the time it ends up like Arl Howe and his wife— they couldn't stand to be in the same room." She made a face. "They deserved each other. My parents were a love match. What happened with Eamon's new bride?"

"There was a rumor, old and well established, that Eamon was my father. He was good to me, and he didn't have to be. It was a blow; she did not conceive right away. So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn't a home to me by that point. She despised me. I respect the man and I don't blame him any more for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough."

"Once you were of age, no one gave you the opportunity to leave?" asked Elissa.

"No. The Grand Cleric was quite firm about that. And I spent half my life in the Chantry. I knew I couldn't... the guard only accepts warriors of the highest standing. Or sometimes, the son of a noble who would honor his family's name. Fatherless young bastards aren't really the type. But I never wanted to be a templar. It was just what was expected of me. I didn't have the... reverence. The aptitude, yes, but not the attitude. Duncan rescued me. I wanted to go, but he still had to conscript me. I thought they might arrest us both!"

"And if you had not been recruited? What then?" Morrigan questioned.

"I would have turned into a drooling lunatic, slaughtered the Grand Cleric and run through the streets of Denerim in my small clothes, I guess." He chuckled ruefully.

"Your self-awareness does you credit."

"Thought you might like that."

"If the mages do not want to be bound to your Chantry, and the templars do not want to be bound to your Chantry, why do you not rise up and be rid of it?"

"Maker, Morrigan! Not so loud," he warned. "That's dangerous talk even behind closed doors, let alone out in public. It's not a simple thing. Many templars like their lot in life. And I assume, some mages must appreciate the safety of the Circle."

"I sincerely doubt this."

"The one thing they have in common is that they mostly hate each other."

"On that, we can agree."

They passed into the village. Elissa breezed by a helmeted templar who told them there was no more room for refugees. Lothering was a small, brown place, shaped like an oval, with the Drakon River running through it. There were a score of houses and a handful of businesses, some boarded up, as though that would keep out the coming Blight. The largest feature was a respectably-sized chantry, which took up one side of the river. It was a handsome, old stonework, with many auxiliary buildings, including a cloister and a school.

The courtyard was crowded with arguing folk. A Chasind man wailed about the end of the world, pacing back and forth and screaming, spittle flying from his mouth. A merchant, with a full cart teeming with wares, was getting a browbeating from an angry Sister. "I can't believe it. A Blight descending, and they're still running the Chanter's Board," Alistair pointed out.

"What's a Chanter's Board?"

"Oh, you know. Widows and orphans need help sometimes." He adopted a high-pitched voice, mimicking a woman: "'Black my boots, please.' 'Thatch my roof, please.' 'Escort my daughter through the woods to Grandmother's house, please.' You do an odd job or kill a bandit and the chanter pays you for it."

"Hahaha, ah, I see. Do they let outsiders participate?"

"I can't imagine they wouldn't. Some of the tasks are suited strictly for a mercenary."

"Are we to waste time on every squabble in the village?" sighed Morrigan.

Alistair teased, "You sound leery to be on Chantry ground, Morrigan. Will you burst into flames, I wonder?"

"I am not a demon."

"Riiiiiight."

"We can wait to find Ser Donall, until you have gathered your courage," smirked Elissa. "Come, let us see if there is a merchant at the inn."

The witch scowled. "How kind you are."

"That's what I'm known for— kindness!" she answered cheerfully, whistling a few notes of a song Alistair recognized— it was the Orlesian cotillion played at the Debut Ball in Denerim. One of his earliest memories was of Teagan practicing the dance, preparing to escort a young noblewoman to her coming out.

They approached the solid stone bridge which spanned the Drakon. The river was narrow and sluggish here, though it was difficult to judge how deep it might be. The banks were muddy, the thick kind that might steal a boot right off your foot. The recent rains and foot traffic had turned Lothering's center into a sodden mess.

Morrigan gingerly picked her way through the muck, watching her slippers. _I bet she wishes she could be a bird right now._ Barkspawn was enjoying himself, barking enthusiastically, and he jumped, splashing her with mud. "Control your mangy beast!"

The Warden girl stopped dead. Alistair nearly plowed her over. "Maker's—" He stopped himself, with one look to her face. She was pale, and trembling. "What's the matter?"

"Oren?" She stretched out her hand, as though willing herself to clasp a ghost. Then, sweeping, dark resolve passed over her face. "No. My mistake, child."

The boy, sensing kindness, ran to them, teary and trembling. He couldn't have been more than four years old, filthy and hungry. "Have you seen my muvver? Where has she gone?"


	7. Blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is nsfw

"So she said to him, " _Désolé_! I do not know where your pantaloons are, but let me look for them." What she could not tell him, naturally, was that _she_ took them to later give his dogs the scent." The orange haired woman sipped from her mulled cider, leaning forward to stage whisper to her rapt audience. She explained with a saucy wink, "She needn't have bothered. She smelled like him from head to toe."

 

 

 

The patrons of the Angry Mule burst into raucous laughter. Even the qunari, in the dim corner, made a sound which passed for amused. Elissa Cousland was at the center of it all, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, deep in her cups. Tonight, she wore a peasant's dress, with a woolen red skirt and tiny slippers, her hair tied up in her yellow silk scarf. She could pass for a tavern wench, as long as she kept her mouth shut. If she spoke, her highborn accent gave the game away. Behind her, the Orlesian storyteller continued the tale of the spy Zoë.

A lone Warden stepped out of the small roadside inn, into the cold night air. The wind was picking up, hinting at the possibility of a storm blowing off the lake. The signage creaking in the breeze bore a crude painting of a donkey kicking a man in the backside.

He shivered, pulling his cloak around himself tighter, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. It was unbearably stuffy and hot inside the tavern; it smelled of unwashed bodies and vomit and beer and stew. Outside was not much better: earth and shit, and though he didn't want to buy into the stereotype, wet dog.

A flash of momentary brightness as the door opened behind him: "Where do you think you are going?" Morrigan queried from the shadow. Funny... the more time she spent with them, the less she spoke like she'd learned the king's tongue out of an old book. Of course, right now she was also slightly intoxicated on sweet Chantry wine. Alistair had participated until it made him maudlin.

She wore a thick, quilted jacket made out of brown velveteen, cut in the style of a Tevinter magister. The piece had a high collar and a fanning tail, handsome, imposing, but hardly subtle. Just like the woman herself. This was a present from their esteemed leader, who was overly fond of giving gifts.

"Just needed some air," he answered, swallowing down the acrid taste of saliva, which pooled under his tongue.

"Not running away?" She joined him, lighting their faces with a small conjured flame at her fingertips. It glowed, blue and eerie. "Do not think I have not noticed how you have changed since Lothering."

"Careful, Morrigan. Someone just might think you caaaaare about me, and ruin your scary witch reputation."

"I perceive that you have stopped fraternizing with the Warden. What have you done?" She laid her hand on his shoulder. He immediately shrugged her off, stepping to the left, but not before smelling the booziness of her breath.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" He sniffled, and wiped his running nose with the back of his hand.

"Are you not standing out in the cold, pining for her? T'would be more efficient to get her intoxicated and be done. Take her to bed." She grimaced. "Ah. Disgusting. T'will be sick for speaking so."

"It's not like that. I'm not pi— Andraste's flame, Morrigan, I am not _pining._ And neither is Lissa. She has her new friends to keep her entertained."

"You are jealous!"

"Jealous? Me?" he said half-heartedly. "Of the psychic Sister and the qunari? Pah."

_Maker, that Leliana. They sure do grow 'em crazy in Orlais._ She was a strange one. Shrewd, wily, annoyingly disingenuous, but candidly fanatical about her worship of the Maker. He could see how she had made her fellow Sisters uncomfortable; he felt the same. She actually believed that the Maker had a direct hand in the everyday fates of men.

Leliana was not beautiful, but she made up for it with interesting features and melodic voice. Lissa had shared a suspicion with him that she was actually a bard— an assassin of the Grand Game— yet she still graciously allowed the woman's presence, unafraid. If Leliana was a fox, Lady Cousland was a wolf.

With Leliana's assistance, they had rescued the qunari, who called himself Sten, of something called a 'Beresaad'. The hulking warrior had been caged, left by the Chantry as a prize for the darkspawn to claim. Alistair knew very little of the Qun ways and had never met a giant, but if memory served, they were supposed to have horns. What's more, this one was brown, not grey, which did not match the pictures in Mother Dreya's illustrated manuscript of Thedas. (He'd gotten into quite a bit of trouble as a twelve year old for touching it without permission.) Might he have a Rivaini parent? Was such a thing even possible?

Sten had committed cold-blooded murder in Lothering. No way around it— he slaughtered the very ones who rendered him aid. He would not tell them why, but he was frank and remorseful about the deed. Sure, it meant that Alistair had to sleep with one eye open, but the terror Sten's presence caused on the battlefield was almost worth it. Almost.

"What, then? You have been strange, since we took this road. I saw you pluck the enchanted rose from the Chantry garden. Surely, you have no use of its magical properties. Have you another lover in Redcliffe?"

He blustered for an answer. "I'm not even going to— How did you— What makes you think I have a magic flower?"

"A thing which springs from a dead bush, and does not wilt..."

"You've been spying on me," he accused.

"Do not be a fool," she retorted. "I know that is difficult for you."

"Why do you always go on about how stupid I am? I'm not stupid, am I?"

"If you need to ask the question..."

"Because it hurts my manly feelings, you know. All _one_ of them." He grinned wryly.

"Then I'll be sure to write you an apology once all of this is over. But, indulge me first, Alistair. What has you acting the fool tonight?"

He groaned. Maker, she was not giving this up. "Didn't we just... Do you remember the boy in Lothering?"

"I cannot recall. There were many of the horrid creatures scurrying about in the camps."

"You're so motherly, it really warms my heart. But, with a mother like yours... But I digress. I'm speaking of the child on the bridge."

"I still cannot recall."

Alistair scoffed to himself. The wind whipped around their feet. He walked a couple of steps into the soft, dewy grass, feeling the chill seep into his boots. "How much did you drink? Dead woman, fetched her amulet, sent the boy to the Chantry? No? Pay better attention!"

"I was occupied elsewhere," Morrigan huffed. "The Warden sent me off to trade for supplies..."

* * *

" _Maker, Lis, what the hell happened?"_

" _Loghain sent his regards," she replied dryly, wincing as a sister daubed the long cut on her jaw. "We sent some back." Her green eyes were glassy from pain and strong Antivan brandy._

_He took the last chair at the table, beside the little boy munching bread. "Who's we?"_

" _Alistair, meet Leliana. Leliana, Alistair."_

_The girl barely glanced at him. "Charmed, I'm sure," she said in a mushy Orlesian accent. "This will need stitches."_

" _Leliana is from the cloister— Ow, fuck, don't, that hurts!"_

" _Do not talk. I must go and fetch a needle and thread."_

" _Fantastic." Blood dripped down her neck, traveling along the brown streaks where it dried. Her skin was the color of chalk. Alistair chewed his cheek._

" _I will be back," Leliana assured as she left them._

" _We did a fight," informed the child solemnly._

" _Yes, we did, Peter."_

" _You said a swear."_

_Elissa clicked her tongue. "When you're grown up, you can swear, too." The child seemed pleased with this._

" _How many were there?" he asked, after a moment of silence. What else was there to say?_

" _Just three... I think. Well armored. But I didn't walk in expecting a bar brawl. My own mistake. If it hadn't been for the Sister, I might have gotten the worst of it."_

" _I should have been there," he muttered. With the child to protect, she must have been hindered. In close quarters, she should have had the advantage._

" _They had big swords. You have a big sword! I'm going to be a Grey Warden when I grow up."_

" _And a fierce one you'll be. Here, take this copper and see if you can't find yourself some milk. Be forceful but polite, like a proper Warden."_

" _Yes, ma'am!" Clutching the coin, he rushed away and down the stairs to the innkeeper._

_Alistair moved into the chair vacated by the sister, and picked up the damp cloth. Gingerly, she lifted her chin to allow him access. He hissed in sympathy. "Does it hurt bad?" The cut was jagged and bruising; likely she had been struck with the pommel of a sword._

" _I'm sure it looks worse than it is. Tell me, am I horribly disfigured?" she chucked. Her pupils were large, responding to the effects of the alcohol. He could smell the perfume of her hair, the fragrant sweat beading on her forehead. He wiped it away._

" _No, you're still beautiful," Alistair responded, without thinking._

_Her eyes flickered to him, surprised. "You think I'm beautiful?"_

_His mouth quirked. Defeated, but pleasurably so: "You caught me. Of course you are, and you know it. You're ravishing, resourceful, and all those other things you'd probably hurt me for not saying."_

_She smiled. "I would never hurt you."_

_His stomach flipped. "Nor I, you." The background chatter of the Dane's Refuge seemed to grow louder, threatening to drown out the sound of his heart beating in his ears. "I still wish I had been here with you. I think I would look rather dashing with a scar, don't you think?"_

_She tapped him on the nose. "And ruin your pretty face? No, no, I can afford a few scars. I want people to be scared of me."_

" _Well, consider me scared." And he was scared. Because he thought, then, that this would be the perfect time to kiss her. Only, she was bleeding and raw and he would probably hurt her. He settled for pushing her hair behind her ears._

" _Alistair..."_

* * *

"Alistair! If you cannot explain yourself to me, I will be forced to send her out." She pushed open the tavern door.

Alistair snapped out of his reverie. "No, come on, don't do that!" he begged, scrambling to follow her back inside. His feet were leaden with the cold.

"Morrigan, Alistair whatever is the matter?" asked Leliana, intercepting them. "Can you not save your aggression for the darkspawn? Why must you always fight?"

"She's hateful."

"He's an idiot!" the witch declared, throwing up her hands. "He cannot be reasoned with."

"Oh, that is so sweet," the Sister cooed. "You two have feelings for each other."

"That's not―"

"Ridiculous—"

"—even close—"

"—to even say such a thing—"

"—Maker's breath, no!"

"—you naive girl."

"Hm, you may try to deny it. But I see what is going on here," Leliana said with a sage air, folding her hands.

"I have never heard anything so wrong in my life," Alistair retorted. He scanned the room. The place had thinned out. Some had returned to their rooms, others had passed out in their mugs of ale. The innkeeper, a grey-faced old woman, was methodically cleaning glasses with a white cloth. "Where's Elissa gone off to?"

"She accepted a prayer card from Brother Thessalus and retired upstairs. I assume she wanted time alone to commune with the Maker."

_That doesn't sound like her._ "Thank you, Leliana. If you will excuse me..."

Thunder rumbled above them, signaling the start of the rain. From the narrow staircase, Alistair could hear the silvery drops strike the roof. Plink! Plink! Whoosh! A few drops burst into a downpour. He shivered, grateful to be indoors on a night like this, and not in a tent. Yesterday, they had crossed into Arl Eamon's territory. By tomorrow afternoon, they could be in Redcliffe village.

The reports coming out of Redcliffe were disheartening. Ser Donall had told him of Eamon's terrible sickness— the man, who had always had good health, was suddenly on his deathbed, and no healer had been able to aid him. That Arlessa Isolde had sent out the knights to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes suggested all was lost. The Urn was a legend— an interesting legend, but a legend nonetheless. Alistair hoped they would make it to the castle in time for him to say his goodbye, if nothing else. Much troubled him tonight.

Finding it unlocked, he opened the door without knocking. His friend was sitting at a small table, writing by candlelight in her journal. Her quill shivered violently as her hand moved across the page. The curl of her script was wild, legible only to her. She'd been drinking, and quite a lot. "Hello, Alistair," she invited, without looking up. Recently, she had adopted the habit of writing down travelers' rumors about darkspawn activity.

"Leliana said you were praying. I thought I'd better check and see if you'd hit your head." He flopped down bodily on the bed. It was old and overly soft; he sank like a stone into the middle.

She giggled. "Not re-recently." Her tongue betrayed how much she had imbibed. Elissa cleared her throat. "The brother had some ink. I traded him some cooking herbs for it."

"And a prayer card?"

"Hm? Yes. A funeral card for King Cailan." She held out a rectangular piece of paper, heavy stock, a mass-printed souvenir of death. "In Denerim, he said, street vendors are selling them for two silvers a piece. And, knowing Denerim merchants, probably tufts of blond hair, and coins with his face on them."

Alistair grimaced. "That's disgusting."

She sighed. "I was there for Maric's funeral. Everyone wants a relic from a dead royal. The guard intervened only when they started hawking teeth. And he died at sea!"

He studied the card. On one side was a verse of the Chant, reserved for these sort of occasions. On the other side was a very fine rendering of his brother's face in profile. It was so strange to see him like this— a picture on a page. Alistair hadn't known him any better than that. Would never know him better than that. Stupid, but when he was a child, he had imagined that eventually he and Cailan would be a family together. He had never believed they looked much like each other, but the man in the drawing could have been himself. A little fuller in the face, yes, and longer hair, but they were nearly twins.

"It's a good likeness, don't you think?" Elissa asked softly, turning in her chair to face him.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Lissa... did you know him?"

"Not well. He didn't recognize me when we met at Ostagar, until I told him who I was. Do you want me to tell you about him?"

"Uh, sure."

"Well, when I was young, we spent some time in Denerim. Fergus and Cailan got on like a house on fire. He was friendly, athletic and charming... Favored his father's looks. As I've said, my father fought under Maric in the war. The Couslands have been loyal to the Theirins since Calenhad defeated Elethea, if you believe my old tutor. In fact, my mother was a Theirin. My grandmother Fenella was Moira's first cousin."

He sat up, surprised. "Really? So are you in line for the throne?"

"No." She paused to consider this. "At least, I don't think so. I suppose an argument could be made for Fergus... Huh, I never thought of it, but technically I _am_ a candidate. Certainly more legitimate than Loghain."

"Great," Alistair laughed. "We'll put you up for queen. I'm sure they'd love that."

She shook her head. "I'll defect. They'd make me marry Eamon's brother, oh, what's his name? I should know this."

"Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere," he supplied.

"Yes, that's just it. Our children would have the reddest hair in Ferelden. Then the Chantry would get involved..." She reached out and stroked his head. It sent shivers of frisson all over his body, settling in his cock. "Don't look so glum. I'm sure Eamon has recovered by now. He's just the right sort to be King of Ferelden— popular and tactless. And if not, well, we'll just have to find Fergus, or put up with Anora."

He could feel his loins stirring from her touch, and was grateful that the traitorous side of him was pressed into the bed. "I take it you don't like Anora much."

"Not for any good reason. She's got nine years on me. Even helped me dress my hair for my debut. The problem is— was— Fergus. Anora Mac Tir was _b_ eautiful in her girlhood." She smacked her lips on the 'b'. "Think... men baying in the streets, women breaking their mirrors in a jealous rage... So naturally, Fergus and Cailan both fell in love with her, and they fell out over it. My father, in his wisdom, decided it was a good time to send Fergus to the university in Seleny."

Alistair understood. "You blamed Anora for your brother leaving."

"I blame her for leading him on. Why have a lord, when you can have a prince? He had to go all the way to Antiva to be rid of her. Within a year, he married Oriana, daughter of a merchant. They were a good match..."

_Oren..._

"I'm sorry for your loss, Lis."

She stood abruptly. "I'm sorry for yours. Cailan was a fool, but he was still your brother."

There was a roaring white noise in his ears. "What?"

"Come now," she slurred, frowning when she stumbled. "You thought I wouldn't work it out? Slap a beard on you and you're the ghost of King Maric."

He swallowed compulsively, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat. _Buggering shit._ "I was trying to work out the best way to tell you. Honest. I was going to do it tomorrow."

"I think you liked not telling me." She wobbled. He pushed off the bed to catch her before she fell over. "Going on about me being an heir, when you're the royal bastard!"

He slipped his arm around her to steady her. Despite her angry tone, she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I didn't want to keep it secret from you. But I liked being treated... normal. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me... even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know, as long as possible. I'm sorry, Lis." He spoke against the crown of her fiery curls.

"Don't ' _I'm sorry, Lis_ ' me. I gave you so many chances..."

"How long have you known?" She twisted in his arms, coming face to face with him, too close. He could feel the soft press of her breasts against his chest; heat flared at the base of his spine.

"Since... Your face seemed familiar, but I hadn't seen Cailan in... five years? Since his wedding. I don't know. At first I reasoned you didn't know. But you def- you defended Cailan. I knew it. Cousin!" she whispered triumphantly, her lips grazing his throat.

"Don't... don't call me that..." he murmured, focusing hard on her hot breath on his skin.

"Why not? We share a... what was it... great-great grandfather? King Vanedrin, who got fucked in the ass by Orlais. Have you seen the painting of the Rebel Queen at the palace?" She described it to him in a reverent whisper. Every word set his nerves alight. "A Valkyrie driving a chariot in battle, red hair streaming around her, holding her standard aloft."

His hand wound its way into her hair. He tugged from the roots, pulling her back to meet his hard gaze. His brow furrowed in concentration. "Stop it. You're drunk, and I don't know if I can—" Her pink mouth was open, panting, and he saw the wetness there and craved it like a starving man. "—stop myself," he breathed.

Her eyes were fever-bright and showed no pain. It had to hurt, his hold in her hair, but the heaving of her bosom suggested that she was enjoying it. "What if I called you _Prince Alistair_?" she asked, voice gone husky. "It could be very... thrilling..."

His cock leaped in his trousers. He wanted to hate himself for liking it, but the way she said it... _Hell._ He had never done anything like this but Maker help him, he wanted it. He found her mouth with his, clumsy, need drowning out his fears. The rain pounded down above them, loud, demanding, but she kissed him back, tasting of wine and salt. Her slick tongue slipped against his lips and he granted her entrance, aching.

Couldn't think. Couldn't stop. It was too easy to lift her up, press her against the wall, balance her there with her skirt riding up around his stomach. She was light as a feather and he was strong, the strongest he'd been in his whole life. She groaned, resonating with his loneliness, his desire for her. The first time he'd seen her, he'd hated her, but he'd wanted her. Burning kisses, belly aching, cock throbbing—

"Stop," he exhaled against her mouth, telling himself more than her. "Lissa, Maker—" Alistair kissed a line of worship down her throat, tenderly nipping where her neck met shoulder, where an arrow once met flesh—

"Yes, there, please, more—"

She shifted, arched against him, carefully, so smoothly that he barely knew what she was doing. Then, he felt the wetness between her legs and his mind quieted. She guided him but it was instinct, it was easy, his body knew what to do even if his brain wanted to panic. He found heat, and sweetness there; his sword sank to the hilt. He bucked, breath hitching, overwhelmed. At a distance he heard her voice, coaxing, commanding, driving him, but he could not last like this! He thrust blindly once, twice, three times into the tight warmth and spent, arms trembling. Without warning, his knees failed him, and they collapsed in a pile on the floor.


	8. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is nsfw

A flash and a sound: lightning, right outside the window, cracking like a bullwhip across a beast's back. The young man started at the noise, causing his female accomplice some distress. "Hey! You just kneed me in the stomach."

"Sorry, sorry, so sorry, oh, here, let me—" he shifted the errant limb away from her tender areas. She made a comical face as she helped him de-tangle himself, and he was hit with a sort of panic. "Just— lightning— sorry."

"Barkspawn's afraid of storms, too," she teased.

Alistair groaned. "No! Not like that... The Sisters at the monastery used to say we would get struck by lightning if we... and something about the end of civilization, too. Ugh. You must think I'm an idiot." He covered his face with his hand.

"Oh, no, I have strict rules about that. I never take an idiot to bed," purred Elissa. She kissed his shoulder. He felt his ears flush, but he was secretly pleased.

"Good to, uh, know. But we didn't make it to the bed."

"No we did not." She peeked at his softening cock, hanging out the front of his trousers. "I didn't get a chance to see you, either."

The blush spread across his face and down his throat. "Maker's breath, Elissa, don't look at me like that." Hastily, he tucked himself back away, feeling sticky and strangely gritty, from drying mess.

She cocked her head. "And why not?"

"You make me feel like a ham in a shop window," he groused.

She smiled. Her skirt was haphazardly arranged. Her thighs were bare and coated in pearly seed. She looked debauched, mussed; her lips were a deep red from kissing. He had the strange desire to bite them. _A wicked mouth_ , he thought, not for the first time. "I will avert my gaze," she promised, closing her eyes and tilting back her head. There, on her lily-white throat, he saw the purple evidence of his teeth. "Better?"

He swallowed. "Much."

"So... growing up in the Chantry... oh, how do I say it— You were a virgin?"

Alistair's stomach sank. "Was I that bad?"

"It's cute!" She opened her eyes again. He was drawn to the green, like a hypnotic pendant at a traveling show. She saw his distress. "I didn't mean it like that. I mean— a gentleman usually finds a lady a cloth to clean up with!"

"Oh. Oh!" _Fuck_. He awkwardly pushed himself up, to retrieve a washing cloth. His left foot had fallen to pins and needles. "Ow, ow..." he muttered with each hobbled step.

When he turned back around, Elissa was standing, too. She winked, and pulled her dress off over her head. She wasn't wearing any underthings; for a moment, it was hard to breathe. He had pictured her body on many a cold night, but the reality... the reality was better. She wasn't as scrawny as she had been on the eve of her Joining. A steady supply of fresh meat and hard exercise had stuck to her ribs, making her less a wilting flower, and more a warrior. Her stomach was flat and the color of milk. Her small breasts bore upturned buds, pink like tree blossoms. Her pale skin burned but never darkened; she had no tan marks to speak of. Her hips were narrow and glass-sharp, with red curls between them. And, truth be told, she had a magnificent ass. Alistair gawked.

"Now who's staring?" she asked, unabashed in her nudity. He came to her, scarcely knowing himself, and began to wipe her thighs clean. She hummed under his hands, skin prickling with gooseflesh from the cold water.

_You're beautiful,_ he thought. What he said, however, was, "How come you don't freckle?"

She laughed. "When I was a precocious girl, always sneaking out to watch the guards training, or scraping moss out of the wall with my very own little rapier, I would burn in the sun. Then, Mother and Nan would catch me and drag me into the tub, and scrub me with sugar and lemon and special herbs, to keep my skin nice. They said I would regret it as a woman at court, if my bosom was too spotted to show off." His fingers wandered north, stroking the soft folds between her legs, slick with her excitement. He couldn't say what possessed him, but it felt good to explore. She did not push him away; indeed, she leaned against him, huffing soft breaths as he found a curious nub of flesh. "When... when I was in Orlais, I bought a cream which was allegedly enchanted. They peddled it to the pox-faced women, who wore veils, to restore... their skin." She began to tremble violently. "I used it every day. I cannot— cannot— cannot—" Her body jerked. "I cannot talk while you're doing that!"

Tenderly, he laid her down on the bed. He pulled his shirt off, amber eyes darkening, and hovered over her, stroking this interesting place between her legs. "You were in Orlais?" he asked, amused by her little spasms. He kissed her damp thighs and she cried out, back arching.

"Long story," she said, when her breath returned. Finding himself aroused by her satisfaction, he took her again, with her legs over his shoulders. In this position, he found more success, as he could last longer. Alistair quickly brought them both to shouts.

This time, he pulled her close, burying his face in her neck. They were sweaty, bare, and thoroughly spent. Leisurely, she ran her nails across his broad chest. She looked like the cat who stole the cream. "Have you..." he began, treading into uncertain territory, "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"I've had my share of lovers," she agreed.

"Ah."

"In Antiva, it is expected that a lady of means will be one of experience, as well. Ferelden is funny. We want our wives to be tigers, but our brides to be virgins."

"And these things are mutually exclusive?"

"In my understanding, yes. A virgin girl is a quaking thing, afraid of her own shadow. A man fantasizes that he can teach her how to please him, but he will grow impatient, and bored."

He frowned. "Were you? Bored with me? Because it didn't sound like it."

"Don't get your feelings hurt. You were a templar; I understand they strap chastity belts on you when you turn thirteen."

"Not true." He laughed a little. "I hadn't had the pleasure because... I wanted it to be special."

"Special how?"

"Not in the Pearl, for one. Not with some stranger. It's the little things. Candles, fancy sheets... I read a lot of naughty books. You'd be surprised what sort of literature Chantry Sisters pass around."

"Would I?" She got up, and brusquely cleaned up her pits and privates. _Whore's bath_ , they called it. "Mother had a friend who would read them aloud for us at her salons."

"So it's a woman thing, got it." Alistair dragged her back into bed. "Who was your first? Was it in Orlais?"

She grinned salaciously. "There was this pretty girl..."

"Maker's breath!" he whispered.

"I could tell you a far more interesting tale, of Geraldine, with the long blonde hair, and the most delicate doe mask? A courtesan of Empress Celene. She kept my bed warm and full of secrets." Seeing Alistair's overly eager expression, she put his visions to rest. "But no, I am not much for tales. The reality is a touch more complicated. My first was my betrothed."

"I didn't know you were—"

Elissa screwed up her face. "Nobles. What can I say? Most of us have our marriages sorted out at birth. We're an odd lot. So. Story: I had just entered into womanhood, and I fancied myself madly in love with him, like any girl that age. He took me to my debut ball... We were quite lovely together, and he is still the best dancer I will ever know. But. The fantasy did not quite live up to the reality... and I demanded my engagement be called off." She sighed. "My poor father. Both his children were too stupid to... There was Fergus, chasing after the king's future bride, and myself, deflowered before my time." She spoke plainly, with little emotion. "He didn't love me in the way I expected. How could he have? He was a good seven years older than me, and I was still a girl."

"Lissa." He petted her hair. "You don't have to go on."

"Hm. The short of it... it was nearly a terrible scandal. Since I refused to marry Nathaniel Howe at the tender age of sixteen..."

Alistair blinked. "Nathaniel Howe, as in Howe, the arl who killed your family?"

She shifted away from him, shuddering. "No, but his oldest son. Nathaniel has heard nothing of his father's murderous ways, Maker willing, wherever he is these days. He _loves_ his father. Arlessa Eliane, his mother, ah... She was an excellent physician, but even Flemeth is more motherly."

"Right."

"Father was establishing a new trade route across the Waking Sea, one where a naval presence would dissuade the pirates from making off with Highever cargo. He was always a better merchant than he was a warlord. I went with him, until the scandal blew over, and spent two years in Val Royeaux. Geraldine was my Leliana back then."

His eyes widened. "But you're not— Not with Leliana? Are you?"

"Am I fucking her?" She rolled her eyes. "The only person who has been in my bed lately has been you. Or haven't you noticed?"

"Yup, and I'm an idiot."

She hushed him. "No, you're not." She laid a finger across his lips. He could feel his mustache prickling against the callouses. "Geraldine was a bard. It was— is— dangerous for a Fereldan to live extended in their capital. People are always looking for your weaknesses. Some Orlesians would be happy to return to war. Even the servants could be an enemy, an opportunity for a diplomatic incident. And Cailan was such a young king. So my father paid a reputable spymaster for her services."

"Did she really 'warm' your bed?"

"Wouldn't you like to know!"

The rain continued to drench the shore, silver lightning crackling on Lake Calenhad. The room grew colder. Alistair pulled the blanket over them, and dragged Lis into his arms; the bed sagged tremendously. It felt deliciously good, to lie naked with her pressed against him. Sinful. And besides, the end of civilization was already upon them. What could be worse than a Blight and a civil war? "You know, you are really talented."

"At what? Sex?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," he scolded.

"I suppose you have nothing to compare to."

"I was going to say _politics_. But I take it back."

"Oh, don't! I'm sorry, please, compliment me!" she giggled.

"You wouldn't be the worst queen in the world. You might actually be quite good at it."

"We are not on an epic quest to put a Cousland on the throne. My ancestors didn't fight to defend generations of Theirins to see one of us claim it."

"Not all the kings and queens have been Theirins. Being a descendant of Calenhad is good enough."

"I believe that qualifies _you_ , Alistair."

He cringed. "I would never, could never be king. I like being a Grey Warden. I like being a nobody. You can't possibly think that blood is qualification enough for me to rule."

"It will be enough for many."

"Which is why I don't go around announcing it."

"You're a hypocrite," she accused, pulling out of his arms and sitting upright. "My blood is good enough, but yours is not? Is it because you're a bastard? Because bastards become kings, all over Thedas, Alistair."

"It's not the same. You were raised to rule."

"So was Anora."

"Fine! Then we leave her on the throne. Oh, wait, she's her father's puppet."

"I don't know why we're even arguing this."

"Because we have to kill Loghain!" he shouted. "I will not let my brother's murderer take his throne! And it's... good to have a plan."

"Spoken like the future king."

"Fuck! Elissa. It's not something I want. My father didn't want me—" He caught himself. Mortified, he pulled himself out of her bed and went for his clothes. _Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid idiot._

"Did Maric know about you?" she asked, carefully, with a look of concern. He hated her pity, then. It filled him with ugliness.

"He did. Eamon kept him apprised of my life. I can only assume he approved the plan to make me a slave to the Chantry."

"What?"

"One of the Chantry's dirty secrets— templars are lyrium addicts. Once you take your final vows, they poison you with the stuff until you can't think straight. And the Chantry controls the lyrium trade... You can make the connections." He pulled on his boots.

"Oh, Maker... Alistair, where are you going?"

"I need a drink."

"Shall I come with you?"

"No. I... need time to be alone."


	9. Hostile

The dream came in waves of purple and gold, washing over the shores of black intoxication. Six women, bathed in silk gowns the color of the sea, stepped out of the surf and onto the white sand, bare-footed. The flesh on their bones shone in the moonlight; a bright night illuminated these wraiths of the spray, these sirens of the rock. Each was armed, some with gleaming weapons, others with tokens of power. Fright gripped him and he turned to run in the soft sand, but in this dream state he was slow and clumsy, and stumbled to his knees. "What are you?" he cried out, and from the formless dark their faces came to be.

"We are Death," said the First, with a benevolent nod of her head. He did not know her, but she knew him. He felt this at the core of himself, but knew that she was a liar and would lead him into the dark sea if he gave in to her. Yet, for a paralyzing moment, he wanted to give in, to the sad kindness of her arms. The First was a tiny woman, wearing an ivory mask which covered everything but her huge elven eyes. Her long black hair curled lazily around a staff which was taller than she was. She reached out to him with her free hand, as she approached him. When she was close enough to touch, he reached for her, and found her fingers were cold as ice. Cold as death. He shouldn't have been surprised. He pulled away.

"We are Vengeance," said the Second, a sneer set on her lips. He knew her, every inch of her mortal body, but not a single one of her thoughts or breaths or sighs did belong to him. She glowed like a pillar of fire. Her hair burned with licks of orange flame under a golden crown, but she carried a sword in her hand, and blood dripped down from the blade to coat her pale arm in crimson. This creature bore Elissa's face, but it was not she, any more then the next was really Morrigan.

"We are Patience," said the Third, in Morrigan's voice, carrying a dragon's egg in her arms. It seemed an impossible weight, but she did not tire, or flag, or weaken. Indeed she floated along the beach, and only her big toes skimmed the sand. Her gold eyes smoldered with Time, but they were not her own. They were an old woman's eyes, which did not suit her fresh face. He could see the dragon behind them. Another came before he had the chance to think on this.

"We are Choice," said the Fourth, a flaxen haired woman with the visage of his brother's wife. Anora scowled, her head bowing under the burden of a crown much too large for her head. She held a rose in her hands, a familiar blossom, one he knew rightfully belonged to him. The stolen thorns plucked at her soft fingers, and she bled. His brow furrowed and he tried to question her, but found he had no voice with which to speak. He clutched the sand in both fists, his only defense.

"We are Freedom," said the Fifth, chuckling darkly. _Freedom at what cost_ , he wondered, for this spirit was drenched in the blood of others, stained even upon her pretty face. Her black hair was cropped like a boy, and her lithe frame swaggered like a commanding officer, with every firm step. The Fifth was unfamiliar, but though she carried a well-used knife in each hand, he felt no immediate danger. This butcher might be a friend.

"We are the Future," said the Last, a brown-skinned prisoner in chains, who, bizarrely, walked like an empress. No slave was she. She looked upon him with pity, like he was just a grain upon the sand, and spoke like a prophetess. Of this one he was most alarmed, more than Death, for her face seemed to swim and change before him from kind to cruel, the kind of demon who would bring a king to crawling on his belly like a worm.

"What do you want of me?" he questioned.

"Are you afraid?"

"Yes," he answered, honestly.

"As you should be," agreed the Last. "Only a fool would turn his gaze upon us."

"So you... want me to be afraid?"

"We want you to listen, young King Alistair." She shook her head, with bemused exasperation. She was a handsome creature, not a girl but most assuredly a woman, with all the grace and maturity which only age offered.

"I'm not a king!"

"You are not listening," scolded Death, in a motherly tone, from the left. "We are not interested in your opinions."

"You still have options," reassured Choice in her airy voice. "But you would be prudent to heed us."

"I..."

"Accept the gifts offered to you," advised Freedom, toying with her weapons. "Listen to your friends. The wisest leader of men surrounds himself with those who know more than he."

Patience smiled. On that face, it was freakish to him. "You have bumbled your way into a circle of the most talented and powerful beings in Thedas. Do try not to fuck it up."

"I'm sorry... powerful? Leliana? Really?" he scoffed. The sand in his fists trickled between his fingers, like an hourglass. "And I suppose you'll tell me that Sten is really talented at glassblowing or something. For a bunch of impressive ooglies, your information is a bit crap."

"Stubborn to the last," said Elissa— _Vengeance—_  rather, her burning face inscrutable. "Hold onto that."

Frankly, looking directly at her was blinding. He squinted. "Are you spirits or demons? Why do you look as you do? Why not be yourselves? Horrible monsters or balls of light or whatever you Fade things look like."

"It's your dream," explained Anora— _Choice—_  or whatever. Seriously. It was annoying to keep up with all these vague titles. "We draw from your threads. We are women most important in your life."

"Screwed that up, didn't you though!" Alistair laughed sourly, and pushed himself to his feet. No more of this hovering over him business. "Lis, Morrigan, okay fine, but Queen Anora? Really? Couldn't have had my mother? I would have liked to see her face, just the once. Had a wetnurse too, of whom I was most fond. Could have sold me on that. But you three..." He indicated to them carelessly. "I don't know any Orlesian mages, sorry. Maybe you were meant to haunt Leliana."

"We are who we are meant to be, past, present, and future," said the Last. The chains rattled on her bound arms.

Alistair rolled his eyes, feeling a mix of discomfort and annoyance. "Ohhhh, of course, my _future_. When I'm _King of Ferelden_. Don't know if you get post in the Fade, but we have a Blight on. S'not going to be any Ferelden soon."

Death chuckled. Of course she would. Was she beautiful under her mask, or perhaps grotesque? "Then you'd better get to it, child. A word of warning— your family is in danger. Wake up!"

The clouds crackled with green light. "What do you— Who is in danger?" he began to say, but before he heard an answer, the sand gave way beneath his feet. He fell into the abyss.

* * *

The bastard prince slept poorly, on a wave of frothy ale and inevitable vomiting, and woke with a smashing headache. The sky was just the faintest traces of pink, early dawn after the storm, but the smells of the tavern were too much for his beleaguered head. Blearily, pausing frequently to dry-retch in a slop bucket, he dressed and clomped his way down the stairs.

The last thing he could remember was playing wicked grace with a bunch of dwarves. The more he drank, the better he was at cards, and by the end he was winning as many hands as he lost. Earned a few silvers, and nobody got knifed or anything.

The early morning crowd was a ragged bunch. They clumped to the tables away from the windows, heads down near their plates. Alistair counted a few surface dwarves, sharing a meal with a very phlegmy Chantry Brother. There was a farmer with his family— four skinny children— getting loudly berated by his large wife. A smattering of various others who could be categorized as well armed... but none were his companions. He had the feeling he had drank with some of these, made "new friends" in the night, and felt a rush of hot nausea when he realized they were Carta enforcers.

Patrons breakfasted on sausages, and tomatoes fried in fat, sweet beer, and black bread. _Oh, Maker, I bet that tastes delicious,_ he thought with regret, too ill to partake. _The worse it looks, the better it is. That's the rule of Fereldan cooking._ Near the bar, a scrawny serving elf balanced an enormous tray of meals on one shoulder. Swaying around her, he very nearly caused an accident.

"Oops, sorry," he muttered, as he bounced off her hip.

"Watch where yer goin!" she snapped, spinning her burden to dodge him. The elf gave him a once-over with her eyes. "Mercenaries!" she exclaimed. "You should probably sober up before yer lady-captain drops yer sorry arse in the lake."

Alistair flinched. "Not so loud! Have you seen her? My... captain?"

"Your band is outside, in the stables."

"Well... thank you. Sorry, again. That was clumsy of me." _Shit, Maker, just the shittiest morning..._

Her pointed face softened at the sincerity of his apology. "Now, you do look proper miserable. Here." She plucked a glass full of red liquid from her tray and offered it to him. "Hair of the dog. Consider it the house special. Yer Alistair, ya? Missus has paid for yer brekky already."

"Oh! Um... Thanks." He warily accepted her offer. He didn't recognize the stuff, but it probably tasted like straight poison. Every tavern had their own proprietary blended cure-all. Some worked, some didn't— all were horrible to drink.

"Don't mention it." She grinned. "Drink it down, there's a lad."

Feeling brave (and put upon the spot, truth be told) he took a large gulp of the pulpy red stuff. It was something like hot coals and old fruit, and burned his sinuses as he swallowed it down. "Maker's breath!" he sputtered.

"Tastes like buttered arse, I know, but don't ye feel better?" A grizzled dwarf with a prominent facial tattoo whistled for her attention. "It's elfroot juice, Antivan hot peppers, whiskey, and— —I know! I'm coming! Keep yer shirt on— —These Carta, no manners." She rushed away, balancing her load as though it was weightless.

The funny thing was, he did feel slightly better. He could breathe, smell again, without needing to heave. The pounding behind his eyes began to fade as the healing herb worked its magic. He dutifully drank the rest of the glass, and left it on the bar-top. The old innkeeper was nowhere in sight. In the kitchen? Or perhaps still asleep. Her girl was more than competent in running the morning crowd. What was the old wisdom? The best whore listened like a spymaster... the best serving girl scolded like a mother. Or something like that.

Squaring his pack over his shoulders, he went outside. The storm of the night before had passed, rinsing the muck off road and filling the air with the sweet freshness of familiar plants and familiar mud. Home. They were so close to home now. Add the odor of fish, and they could have been in Redcliffe village. The first rays of sunlight reflected off the choppy blue waters of Lake Calenhad, swollen from the rain. Clusters of red spindleweed and cat's tail and blood lotus sprung from the pebbled shore. Something about the water's edge struck his imagination, but he couldn't begin to guess what.

On all sides, the Hinterlands, the foothills of the Frostback Mountains, rose around them. Foothills seemed a bit of a misnomer, really, since some paths were as steep as any mountain trail he'd traveled. It was much easier by horse, and like any other Redcliffe lordling of days past, he had learned to ride as soon as he could sit Dennet's gentlest (and laziest) pony.

Later, when Isolde had chased him from the castle nursery, he had roamed the forest with the other village boys. It had been safe, back then, to carry lunch for a day and harass the wild rams. Now those same trees sheltered pockets of foul darkspawn. If they were lucky, the farmers of the outlying region had taken refuge behind the gates of Redcliffe or Rainsfere. Little villages like Honnleath offered no protection against a Blight. Maker watch over them all.

Alistair found Morrigan and Sten outside of the stables, engaged in a frightening conversation about interracial love making. The witch appeared very interested in... jumping the giant's bones, for lack of a more delicate turn of phrase. Shuddering, he chose not to listen further, and found the other girls inside, conversing earnestly with a stranger.

"I don't care if Loghain's closed the border," Elissa said firmly to the courier, touching the flank of his horse, "these simply must get to Val Royeaux. I'm sure I don't need to press upon the urgency. I'm paying you double now, and extra if I hear a timely response from our Orlesian friends. Stay close to the lake, then take the pass through the mountains as far north as can be managed. I imagine you can outrun the Blight through the snow."

The courier nodded. "Milady."

"If your organization is successful, I have many generous friends who can grant you a foothold in Orlais. Your superiors would value this," commented the Chantry Sister. Sly fox girl...

"Of course," he agreed. "We will find you with the answers to your letters."

"You won't fail," said Elissa, dismissing him with a well-practiced gesture. To his eyes, she looked exhausted, like she hadn't slept at all. She was getting better at not showing it, but he read it in the lines in her hunched back, the stiffness of her neck.

He had the pounding urge to flee. _Only a fool would turn his gaze upon us,_ he thought, remembering a line from a play he once read. "Good morning," he said, before his courage totally failed him.

"Good morning, Alistair," replied Leliana, with her usual good cheer.

"Mm. Morning," echoed Elissa, looking past him. He shrank a little. "Now that everyone is up, we'd best be going," she said, to the other girl.

Leliana took him by the arm and guided him back into the morning air. She whispered, "We have word that they've locked the gates at Redcliffe. Nobody allowed in."

He frowned. "Why? That can't be right."

"We shall have to see, yes?"

"Who did you hear this from?"

"The courier, of course," she explained gently, as the witch, the dog, and the qunari fell in step behind them. Their leader lagged behind, fidgeting with the strap on her new scabbard. "He expected to meet Lady Cousland in Redcliffe. We sent out a summons back in Lothering."

"Who is she trying to contact?"

"Many people," Leliana laughed, as though this was an obvious thing. "We composed a list of Fereldan lords who would be sympathetic to our cause. The blessing of the Maker is not enough. This, even I can see. Orlesian finishing schools train their pupils to think laterally to achieve their goals."

"I see." He did not.

"As you may know, the Cousland Family managed a very extensive and valuable trade in textiles. Highever produced its own fabrics, including a lovely taffeta, but more importantly she held control of the imports into Ferelden, and a share of the foreign market. This means that many, many people owed debts to Teryn Bryce Cousland. At my suggestion, the lady has agreed to collect on these debts to bring in some gold to our cause, in the event we manage to summon an army. Spies are also quite useful," she said breezily, as they descended a hill. "However, we have come across a new... complication."

"Howe has been made the new Arl of Denerim and Teryn of Highever," announced Elissa in dull voice. Alistair felt like he had been struck. "The news came in the night."

"Maker, Lis, I'm so sorry," he blurted, instinctively trying to turn and face her. Leliana's hold became stone like a golem's grip, preventing him from doing so. He felt like screaming, but- there must be a reason for this. A warning from the sister?

"Apparently my family were 'traitors colluding with the enemy'. That is to say, Ferelden is now hostile to Orlesians again."

"A sorry state for me," quipped Leliana. "This Arl Howe is very good at the Game."

"We don't play your games in Ferelden," Alistair protested.

Leliana disagreed. "You do. But you are not honest about it. In Orlais, we wear our masks so that we can be our true selves." _Which of these true selves are you wearing, Leliana? Sister or bard?_ He wondered, thinking to Elissa's private accusations. He was uncomfortable with the idea that Leliana might be right about Ferelden.

"None of these games have any honor," scoffed Sten. "You should face your enemy directly, and end his life in combat."

"Yes, yes, we've all agreed to that," said Morrigan. "T'would be wonderful to freeze this Howe's skull, and be done with the rat. But we do not have a dreadnought to tear down his castle walls. Do you think it a sound strategy for the five of us—" the dog barked "—excuse me, the _six_ of us, to go wandering up to his army and commit suicide?"

"Harumph," grumbled Sten. "You fight like Ben-Hassrath."

"I'll assume that is a compliment," retorted Leliana. "Ignoring the lone dissenter, you should be informed that we have sent a letters to Val Royeaux. Which makes all of us traitors, now, in the Regent's eyes. I hope this does not trouble you."

"Not at all," shrugged Alistair. "But why bother with Orlais now? Could they even send money through the closed border?"

Before he got an answer, they had a nasty skirmish with a small contingent of pillaging darkspawn. Leliana, quick as summer lightning with her bow, took the most kills. Not that he was counting. Just around the bend, horror awaited them. They walked on in dour stillness for a while then, among the ruin of lives. Cottages burned, crops rotted in the fields. Even the carrion birds were reluctant to make a meal of the Blighted corpses. These people— had he known them? Had he played with their children? Perhaps their husbands? The familiar sounds of life in the woods had been replaced with a deadly hush. It made him sick.

Suddenly, Elissa broke the silence. "There is a chance that our treaties will be meaningless, with Grey Wardens branded as public enemies." The gate to Redcliffe was in eyesight now. "If this is the case... I am hoping to arrange passage for you to the Imperial Court."

"What?" He stopped dead in the road.

"As the heir to the throne in Denerim, you would be safer under Celene's protection, until the Blight can be defeated."

"WHAT!"

"Oh, that is just marvelous," drawled Morrigan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ladies of Fate, as it were, are:
> 
> Grand Enchanter Fiona as Death  
> Elissa Cousland as Vengeance  
> Morrigan/Flemeth as Patience  
> Anora Mac Tir as Choice  
> Marian Hawke as Freedom  
> Solona Amell as Future


	10. Pretty

Some slow firing part of his brain refused to recognize that Elissa Cousland had just revealed his most important secret, as though she was commenting on a change in the weather. And in the same sweeping statement, she intended to banish him from his beloved homeland. His mind stuttered. _This isn't happening_ , he decided, because it couldn't be. She would never... Sten called her " _callous_ " under his breath, when he disagreed with her commands, but that was just his stubborn Qunari nature.

_Right?_

Alistair let out a tentative laugh. "You're joking, Elissa. You can't really believe that I would let you bundle me off to Val Royeaux while you lot take on the darkspawn. I'd miss out on all the fun." He smiled thinly; he was pleased with his answer. It was the right amount of cautious amusement, so that when she revealed this all to be a prank, he could laugh along with the punchline.

From behind, she laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. For a split second, he imagined he could feel the heat of her touch, but this was impossible, of course, with so many layers of armor between them. Just a fantasy. "And what will you do when Loghain sets a price for the head of a bastard prince, hm?" she said softly, so only he could hear. "Will you watch us be picked off, one by one, defending your pretty face? Or would you prefer we die all at once?"

The blood in his veins turned to ice. _Not a joke._ "How... How could you ever say something like that?" he asked, in a strained whisper. His jaw flexed, molars grinding. His imagination ran fertile, supplying gruesome scenes: a knife in the back here, a poisoned arrow there. The tools of the assassin, as she had once so casually described. Her dead weight collapsing on top of him...

"They're your friends. They would die for you," she said coolly. He could feel the teeth of the wolf on his neck.

"And you?" His voice broke.

"It would be my _duty_ , my dear cousin." Venom on her tongue. She slapped his shoulder twice, and walked on by.

Time began again. Other voices whirled into life, reacting to his secret like players on a stage. He could hear them recite their lines, but could not respond. The sun on his skin was cold.

"Wait a moment," complained Morrigan, "you mean this fool is our future king?"

"Oh, but it is so romantic..." Leliana sighed, breathy, "A handsome Grey Warden is the secret prince. They will write such lovely songs about his story."

"Swoon later, Sister Leliana. We'll get you some paper later and you can write them yourself," suggested their leader, pushing through them to take a place in the front.

Under the boughs of the mature oaks of Redcliffe, a shadow crossed Alistair's face. The others laughed and told jokes amongst themselves, overly loud. He wished them all away, so he might have time to think. Could she be right? Was he putting them all in danger simply by being Maric's son? This, this was why he didn't want people to know. They always treated him differently. No one was the friend of a bastard prince. _I could leave,_ he thought, but the idea twisted his guts, made him ill. _I should leave and find some darkspawn and... and..._ And the only end to that train of thought was his own death. He wasn't prepared.

But Orlais? Under the thumb of the empress? Was that the only solution, really? Surely he could go to Antiva, Nevarra, the Free Marches? And be a coward, leaving his country to death. The ruler of a pile of ashes. They said that the winner was the one who outlasted his enemies, but what use was a poisoned throne to an unwilling victor?

If Duncan were here, he wouldn't have to go away, would he? Would Duncan send him to the blue empress, wrapped up like a package in fancy paper? The man had deliberately kept him from the fight at Ostagar. He was honorable, but also clever: sure-footed in politics, able to weather the fragile arrangement between Ferelden and Weisshaupt. Perhaps he would agree with Elissa's assessment of the state of things.

He could not see clearly. The future was muddy waters and they were up to their necks in the current. All he ever wanted was to do his duty and be a good Warden. _Duty_. She used the word like a vicious curse. Why did she hate it so? He remembered it being something to do with her father.

He stared at her back, willing his feet to keep pace with his companions. The way she walked always distracted him— her backside swayed pleasantly, as though she wore a full skirt which swished against a marble floor, and not skin-tight leather trousers. He had never seen anything quite like it growing up; the sisters, present company included, walked with purpose, like men.

Just last night, he had slipped his hand between her thighs, felt her come to life at the stroke of his fingertips. She was pure fire at her core. He'd never wanted any other woman the way he wanted her. He'd never done those things— Fucked her sweet and bright while she crooned in his ear. The memory stirred life back into him and he quickened his pace, carrying with him confusing desires: want, and hate. To span her slender waist with his large hands in front of them all, to expose her secrets like she had done his, to claim her and kiss her until she begged him to stay.

 _How does she do this to me?_ he wondered. _She twists me up inside. I hardly know myself._

* * *

Months later, he developed a reoccurring nightmare about the events at Redcliffe. How could they have known? Busy with their petty squabbling over lines of succession, they had been oblivious to the dangers which awaited them in his childhood home.

It began with a frightened youth called Tomas, not much older than a boy yet, perched atop the gate into the village. When Sten gave the wooden door a shove, he bounced back with equal force, his teeth rattling with magic.

"Go away!"

"Hullo, friend!" Elissa called up, when his sunburned face peeked over the battlements. "Are you the guard? Do you mind opening the gate? We've come a long way to see your arl."

"You're armed," replied Tomas warily. "You're not refugees. Are you bandits? I—I've got rocks. I'll smash your heads!"

To her credit, Lissa did not laugh in the face of his blustering threat. She crossed her arms and bowed politely, as though addressing a superior. "We are Grey Wardens, here on the business of the Blight."

His face shifted to hope. "Grey Wardens? Then you've heard? You've come to help!" Tomas ducked out of view, and Alistair correctly supposed he was climbing down to unlock the barricade.

"Come to help with what?" asked Elissa as they passed through the gate. The large old windmill, standing at the top of the hill, came into view. Even from here he could hear the familiar creak; the sound was as comforting as the view of the castle afar. Alistair knew, every native knew, if Redcliffe stood, so did Ferelden.

"You don't know? I thought— Does no one know? We sent for help—" he chattered, slamming the gates closed after Morrigan. The enchanted sigil sealed them tight with a soft orange flash. He felt the magic like any templar, a flickering under his skin.

Alistair frowned. "What's wrong? Something must be _wrong_ in the village if you're using the sigils. Is there a sickness? A plague? Only the arl has the authority to activate them."

Morrigan met his eye, a smile playing about her lips, and he saw that she understood what he was saying, without having to spell it out. "You're using them to repel more refugees," she noted.

"For their own good!" replied the boy, clearly distressed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "We're not keeping the Blight out. We're keeping the _monsters_ in!"

"Monsters?" repeated Leliana, alarmed.

"I need to stay on watch. Warden, you should go talk to Bann Teagan. He's in the chantry, on the other side of the village."

Though she clearly had a hundred questions, Elissa nodded swiftly. "Bann Teagan, then. Thank you, friend."

On the other side of the windmill, a cluster of men in massive white plate, carrying the shields of Redcliffe, sat beneath a tree. A few were dozing, under the watchful eyes of their brothers on guard. It reminded Alistair of the fitful, stolen moments of sleep in the days after Ostagar, fearful of the things that crept in the swamp. He guessed that these men had been awake all night. The only one he recognized was the man in old Chevalier's armor, Ser Perth, who was engrossed in a book of the Chant.

At the crest of the hill, they could look down upon the whole village. It still stood, much as he remembered it, though it had been so long now. In the Hinterlands, where humans had lived since before written history, tradition was old and magic older. In hidden places, shrines to Avaar gods co-existed with monuments to the Elvish god Fen'Harel, known to the Dalish as the Dread Wolf. The Alamarri had grown to love the Wolf, and took His children to raise them as their hounds.

Here, the people did not thatch their cottage roofs with dead chaff. Instead, they cut the living sod from the green earth and let the grass grow tall above their round huts, building tiny hills. It was an art form Alistair had witnessed only once as a child, during the wedding of a very young couple. The bride was swollen with child, pink-faced and pretty with her blonde hair done up in plaits. The villagers came together and erected her a new home, cut the sod with knives which were curved like bear claws, and laid it across the supporting beams. The new family had to tend it carefully in the coming weeks, to keep it alive. If they were successful, and the grasses stayed green, then the union was a blessed one, and the Mother would come from the Chantry to consecrate their threshold.

The enormous lake, which glittered like a sea, was the natural end to the village: on three sides rock, on one side water. Fishing was the village's primary occupation, and the air always smelled of the morning's catch. But the wind brought them other smells— rot, and wet smoke, and blood.

"That gate was blood magic," Morrigan commented quietly, giving Alistair a side glance. "I assumed, with your Chantry's stance on the practice, this would be illegal."

Sten gave a disgusted grunt. Elissa was curious, and looked behind them, but they were far enough down the hill that the gate was no longer in sight. "Really? Was it the boy? He didn't look like a maleficar. He looked like he was going to piss his trousers!"

"No," Alistair corrected. "Not like that. The sigils hold some truly ancient wards in place. It's old Avaar magic, I think. That was just a little one compared to some in the foundation of Redcliffe Castle. When they all were still working, from what I know of the legends, they made the place unassailable. They must have begun to flicker out in the days of King Calenhad."

"But they're blood magic?" Elissa pressed. "Keep in mind, I don't have the training in magical theory you two have. I mean, I can only tell an apostate from a Circle mage by the clothes."

"Yes. Ah. Arl Eamon has some interesting books on sigils and runes in his library if you ever want to—"

"He is dancing around the question," Morrigan interrupted. "Most amusing. He went on and on about Bethany Hawke being a blood mage, when he himself was raised under similar protections."

Alistair flinched. "It's not the same. I... I never once saw them used. My knowledge on them is theoretical, but— Only a Guerrin can use them. It's keyed into the blood. Eamon never told me, outright, because I was not his heir nor family, but I must have read every arcane tome he had. Twice. Teagan would... Teagan would smuggle them out for me." He shook his head. "Teagan must have activated the one at the gate."

"Something is seriously wrong here," Lissa sighed. The village was too quiet. Frightened children huddled in their mothers' skirts, in darkened doorways. Near the square, a stack of charred corpses still smoldered. "We're being watched. There's a plague, or something worse. Don't drink the water until we know," she advised.

In the Chantry courtyard, some men practiced with their bows. But these were not soldiers, just ordinary fishermen, and their aim was poor. "Where are the rest of the knights?" asked Leliana, dodging a stray arrow which wobbled into her path. "Are there no templars to protect this sacred ground?"

"All questions for Bann Teagan," Morrigan answered her, grimacing as they entered the chantry.

This one was more ornate than the one in Lothering, with magnificent blue and red stained glass on the wall of the ambulatory, behind the altar. It was also darker, with fewer candles to light the whispering droves of refugees. They huddled with their belongings all along the nave, praying and crying to the Maker in the same breaths. It felt distinctly like sacrilege, to interrupt their fervor. But the sight of a familiar face drove him onward. His boots clinked against the stone floor.

"Uncle Teagan!" He rushing to greet the man.

"Why, Alistair, is that you?" responded the other, with surprise and joy, turning aside from his aide. "What in the Maker's name are you doing here?"

Bann Teagan Guerrin was approaching middle age, but had always appeared younger than he was. In looks, he favored his sister, the late Queen Rowan, with a sharp nose and cheekbones. His auburn hair was long enough to plait on one side, and these days he sported a beard, but the eyes were ever the same. They embraced for a long moment, and Alistair felt evermore at home again.

"I came to speak with Eamon, but then we heard he's fallen ill," Alistair explained. "The southern gate was warded, uncle. What's going on?"

"We? Ah yes, you've joined the Grey Wardens, haven't you?" Teagan sighed. "Rarely is there a time when being a templar would have been less dangerous. But Ferelden will have need of your talents." A dark look crossed his face. "No matter what the Regent believes."

"We were hoping to have Redcliffe's aid in the coming fight, but it seems you may need our help instead," Elissa added, catching up.

"Who?" Teagan squinted in concentration. "I know you. You're the youngest..." Abruptly, he dropped into a deep bow. "Teyrna Cousland, I had no idea you were even alive. If the Landsmeet knew— your family's friends would never have allowed Howe to seize Highever. My self, and my brother, go without saying."

Lissa clicked her tongue and returned a brief curtsy, which looked odd in her Warden armor. "I deeply appreciate the sentiment, Lord Teagan. But no need for us to stand on formality. After all, didn't we dance together at Cailan's wedding? You may not remember; I was the scrawny one with two left feet."

 _If Lissa's the teyrna, doesn't that make her higher ranking than Arl Eamon?_ Alistair mused, uncomfortable with the intense look Teagan was giving her. _Okay, yeah, now he's kissing her hand. That's not okay._

"Never, my lady. It was I who knocked us into the punch table."

"Was it?" chuckled Elissa, taking back her hand. "I like your version of events better. But I confess I'm unsure... Have you married, Teagan?"

 _Yesterday she couldn't remember his name. Now she's so sweet on him it's like he's her long-lost lover,_ Alistair fumed. _Wait. They haven't... have they? No._

"I... no. No, I've never had the pleasure. If I did, I'd be lucky to find a woman as lovely as yourself," he stammered, emboldened by the careless charm of her flirting.

"Flatterer," she smiled. "Truth be told, I never expected to find you here. Last I knew, you were in Denerim. I wrote to you there."

"Really?" he blushed. "I mean, I was in Denerim, until after Cailan's funeral. I usually act as my brother's agent in the Landsmeet. But Isolde wrote to me, telling me how ill he had become. A coma. At first it was just a terrible thirst, but... no magic or medicine seemed to help him. She sent all the knights away, on a quest."

"The Urn of Sacred Ashes," supplied Alistair. "I met Ser Bryant in Lothering."

"Yes, quite. I only got here myself yesterday." Teagan pursed his lips. "But the castle had been sealed. No one has been allowed inside for over a week. I could not..." he looked away.

"Your blood could not undo them," Morrigan suggested. "Because Eamon is the elder brother."

"How did you—" Teagan looked alarmed. "A friend of yours, Alistair?"

"Allegedly," he replied. "She worked it out for herself."

Teagan's shoulder's slumped. Resigned, he continued, "I tried, and I failed. No one has had communication with the castle since the wards went up. Perhaps everyone had contracted the sickness, and sought to quarantine themselves. Perhaps they are all dead. But last night, I saw for myself what has frightened the people of the village. The dead rise, and come from the castle gates. They slaughter the women and the children. Ser Perth and his men are the only knights here; for two nights they have held off the advance, but they are exhausted, and the dead do not tire. This morning, I warded the village gates myself. At least, this foul curse shall not extend beyond Redcliffe."

"A necromancer, or a demon," pronounced Morrigan thoughtfully. "Probably both. It would take immense power to summon an army of the undead, and control it. Only the sun protects these people now; they will not last another night."

"What do you suggest?" asked Lissa, pulling them away from Teagan.

"I suggest we make good use of the daylight remaining and leave," the witch replied, simply, tapping her staff on the floor. "We cannot hope to win this fight."

"No!" Alistair sputtered. "We can't leave them!"

"Your arl is dead. There are no soldiers here for Redcliffe to give," reasoned Sten. "Or are you now in favor of suicide missions?"

"This is my home. I could never abandon them. If you go, I'm staying." He turned to their leader. "Lissa, you understand. You could have never left your parents..."

She scowled, running her fingers through her red curls. "I would have fought to the death. Do we have to make that choice here?"

 _I can't leave them, not now._ He grabbed her wrist, forced her to look him in the eye. _Not after everything we've been through._ "Please, Lis?"

She tilted her head. He could feel the ugly tension between them, growing all day. Maybe he had misjudged her. But— Elissa bowed her head, smiling strangely. "Remember what I said about your pretty face?"


	11. Dam

He came to find her in the burned-out hut she had taken for a command station. Teagan's position in the chantry had been offered and rejected, saying she preferred the open air. _One can only take so much of Teagan's compulsive hand wringing_ , Alistair thought, satisfied to keep the two of them apart.

She was leaning heavily on the table in the center of the circular space, speaking frantically with Leliana in hushed whispers. " _Ahem_ ," Alistair began, from the threshold. "The first round of repairs have come out of Owen's smithy."

Elissa half-turned to the sound of his voice. "That's better than nothing," she muttered, distracted. "Do you think he might have it all done in time?"

"If he keeps up the current pace. He's drinking—" he stepped up into the structure, boots scraping against the charred wood. One false step and he might plunge through to the knee. "He's still drinking like a fish. I can't say if that's helping or not. Couldn't get him to stop."

"When Death comes a'knocking..." sighed Lissa, rubbing her face. There was a smear of lamp oil on her chin, brown and slick, from her dirty gloves. Her eyes were bloodshot and heavy-lidded. "Who knows how men will answer the door?"

"They are scared," Leliana said. "If Mother Hannah would just agree to—"

"You're the Sister, are you not? I'm sure you will sort her out," suggested Elissa, in a tone that would brook no argument. "Be convincing. If the knights need to gather their stamina from the Maker's tender kisses, make it so."

"Of course. At your command." The Orlesian woman brushed past him on her way out, a dour look on her face. Her fingers clenched the fabric of her robe.

It gave him a dark little pleasure to hear the Sister taken down a peg. Lately it seemed she was lieutenant and confidant both, cutting him off from a position he hadn't even known he wanted, until it was taken away from him. "Irreverent!" he chided mildly when Leliana was gone, but couldn't contain a small smile.

"Was I?" she blinked. "I suppose I was. Sorry."

He waved her off. "No harm done. Everyone's nerves are on edge."

"Mmm." She stabbed a finger at the parchment on the table, returning her focus to her study. "This is a useful map. Thank you."

"Oh, that was Sten's doing. Thank _him_. Soul of an artist, apparently. Those big hands are steady as a rock. I can't draw a straight line under pressure, you know; I get all shaky." Alistair chuckled thinly, peering over her stooped shoulder.

"But this is done from your memory?"

"Yes. I dictated it. Well, not _dictated_ dictated. More like pointed a lot. Tried to stay out of the way..." He moved close enough to take a good look at her plans. "Your handwriting is chicken-scratch. How do you read it?"

She laughed. It was a hollow noise, and he could see her throat vibrate with the effort. "One of my shortcomings, I'm afraid. I'm no good at watercolors, either. My mother was so disappointed." Elissa pushed against him, and pulled off a glove to indicate better her designs. "See, these 'x's are the barricades we're building."

"At the choke points." He could smell her hair from this close, and leaned in to her for a quick whiff. The spicy Antivan perfume with which she rinsed her locks was layered over with charcoal, salt, and elfroot. It was sweet, earthy scent. He physically resisted burying his face in her hair.

"The knights must take the brunt of the assault. They— the _monsters—_  come from here, across the castle bridge. The most efficient archers will be up on this scaffolding, and can shoot down from above when the breach is made. We have a fire trap, um," she slid her fingers across the paper, "here. Took a good amount of time to rig the oil barrels with the charges, but it should slow them down. I'll be with them. If all goes well, we can contain the assault here for the night, and leave the village intact." She sighed. "Of course, that entirely depends on the estimates of the number of the undead being close to correct. It took a while before I found a witness who wasn't _blubbering_ into her skirts. As a whole, they've been close to useless."

"They're doing their best." He drummed his fingers against her shoulder. "Not everyone is as fearless as you are."

"I'm not..." She scratched her eyebrow. "We're all facing the very real possibility that we all will... They need to be ready to open that door," she resolved.

"They will fight for their lives."

"Will that be enough?"

"It will _have_ to be." He scrutinized her battle plans. "Hmm... You've put the main body of the village defenders in the square, under the statue. Where am I?"

"With them. If the first line breaks, you and Sten are the primary defense."

"I don't like it, Lis. I should be up there, with you."

She shook her head as she turned around to face him, arguing, "Morrigan will need your shield to cover her as she casts—" Alistair interrupted her by planting a second gauntleted hand on her shoulders. It was not gentle; she flinched.

"I know you. All the planning in Thedas, Elissa, but you get the blood-lust up and you get tunnel vision. You always leave your flank exposed. Ser Perth doesn't know... if you..." he exhaled with a _whoosh_ and closed his eyes. He couldn't voice the thought.

"And here I thought you and I were fighting." Her voice was amused, but he detected a note of tenderness. It did funny things to his insides; when he pulled her against himself, she did not pull away.

"Doesn't mean I want you to die," he muttered. The muscles in his neck tensed and refused to relax.

"Stupid. I'm won't... You're crushing me, Alistair," she said calmly, to his breastplate.

"OH! Sorry. I guess I was holding you a little tight." His eyes flew open again.

"It's fine, I understand..." Elissa started. She swayed slowly on her feet without his support, and he was clumsy in steadying her. Her eyes were so red.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" He studied her seriously, and made a decision.

Alistair lifted her off her feet and sat her on the table. The floorboards creaked beneath his toes. "Don't," she complained, but didn't fight him. Even in her chainmail, she was easy to pick up.

"Sit," he ordered. "Now, tell me, did you sleep?"

"Well, I..." She finished her sentence with something incomprehensible.

"Lissa?"

Color rose on her cheeks. "Iwaswaitingforyou."

"What?"

"I WAS WAITING FOR YOU!"

"Oh."

"Damn it, Alistair." She scrubbed the bridge of her nose, her face nearly the color of her hair.

He repeated, gingerly, "You were waiting for me?" He turned her words over in his head. "All night?"

"Yes, Maker, all night. Okay?!" Lissa refused to look at him, staring at her knees. "I thought you would come back. And then... you didn't come back. Shit. I'm such a fool."

It was as though she had become a crystal thing, shimmering and clear, and he could see right through to the heart of her. _I abandoned her,_ Alistair realized, stung with the idea. _No wonder she was so hateful this morning._ He saw her, clear as day, calling him names in the Tower of Ishal, not with malice, but grief. Mourning her family and her home. _Not hateful, no, that's wrong... frightened?_ Still mourning her home. Why, hadn't she heard this very morning that Howe had taken it from her for good? _She's alone. Surrounded by people, but all alone. And I made it worse. Excellent work, Alistair._

He had the urge to smack himself in the face. "Lissa, I don't really know what I should say."

She shrugged. "It was just fucking, yeah? No big deal, do it all the time. My mistake. Totally casual." Just slightly, her hands were trembling.

Alistair grimaced, loathing himself. Gathering the tattered shreds of his courage, he gently lifted Lissa's chin, to make her see him. Her eyes were shiny and wet with unshed tears. She tried to shake him off, but he held her firm. _Here goes nothing_. "It meant something to me, too. Really really. I am so, so sorry."

She leaned forward, slowly, heedless to the awkward dimensions of armor against armor, and he was sure she was going to kiss him. He wanted to kiss her, too; saw the chewed and torn skin of her lips and wanted to taste forgiveness on them. He leaned into her, and their foreheads bumped. He could hear his blood thrumming in his ears and then—

She stopped.

Just an inch from his mouth, she swallowed harshly. "I told everyone your secret," she whispered, defeated. "I was so angry with you."

 _Please,_ he thought _, not now._ "I know. Well, I know now. And I can forgive you for that."

She pulled back. At this distance he could see the purple shadows under her eyes so clearly. He wanted to wipe them away for her, erase his mistake. "Alistair, I know it will take time."

"No!" he blurted. "I mean, no, I can forgive you right now. Let me, Lis."

"But..."

"I am really shit at this. Maker's breath. Surely you've worked that out. I'm so out of my depth and I keep cocking this up, but I want to—" He took a deep breath. "—be with you." Quickly he added, "Not just in bed, I mean. All the time. You get in my head and you drive me crazy, but I kinda like that."

"Oh." Her eyes widened.

"' _Oh_ ', like is that a good _'oh, Alistair, yes, let's_ ' or a bad ' _oh_ '. Don't say it's a bad ' _oh_ '." He winced. "I'm sorry, the words just keep falling out of my mouth. Don't answer that."

"I don't know?" she breathed, hesitantly. "I need time to think about it. There really isn't time right now, but... ask me again when there isn't an undead horde bearing down upon us." Lissa gently smoothed his hair into place with her bare hand, but he still felt his heart sink into his stomach.

"Of course. Yeah. Undead. I do not look forward to that. Pleeeeaaaase tell me you'll let me watch your back?"

She sighed. "Alistair, we've just been through this. You've got to protect the villagers. Don't worry; I'll have Leliana there to keep an eye on me."

 _Leliana, again?_ Frustration bubbled up, quick and hot as lava. "To hell with her, Lissa!" he exploded. "You've been in what, a couple of skirmishes with her, as most. Never a pitched battle. She doesn't know what—"

"What? What Ostagar was like?" Her eyes lit with challenge.

"What watching you die is like," he hissed out. He couldn't help it then. Something surged within him, dark and wanting, and he kissed her. Anger melted into need when she returned it, her mouth a furious shard of glass which cut him to pieces. He bit her bottom lip, drawing blood, and was dizzy with it. She stole the breath from his lungs and he _liked_ it. Lissa was the one who broke away, hot tears splashing down her nose; his pleasure turned to penitence.

"Don't think I don't remember it, too," she answered, fierce. "We were both there." She sucked on her lip, nursing the wound.

"I can't ever leave you, not even—" His breath caught.

"Not even if you wanted to," she finished for him, or perhaps echoed him. Shivering, she wiped away her tears. He could feel what she felt without having to ask, like the dam between them was broken.

He ventured, "Maybe there's something wrong with us."

"You mean, besides the Darkspawn taint in our blood, and the end of the world?"

"Yeah."

"I know exactly what you mean."


	12. Hands

A ringing in his ears... head pounding out a tattoo... _Where am I? What's happened? Weight above me, pressing down, something under me. Some_ _one? So dark. Have I gone blind? What is that smell?_ All around him was the pungent sweet odor of death. _No... it can't be. I can't be!_ Alistair flailed in his disorientation, gripped by a living nightmare, buried under the heavy weight of a pile of moldering corpses. He couldn't move his arms. Couldn't tell if he was face up or down. Could barely wiggle his fingers, gloved in thick iron gauntlets. _Maker, please, not like this..._

Suddenly, someone clutched at his heel. The force pulled him downward, deeper into the tangle of bodies. "No!" sprang to his lips, but he could not draw the breath. He kicked, unwilling to go without one last fight, refusing to submit to the rotting fingers of undead hands. But with no leverage to brace himself, Alistair helplessly slid down...

down...

down...

and into the pink morning light.

"Easy, boy, it's done now," soothed a gruff dwarven voice. "Let's set you right."

Before he could protest, a big pair of hands yanked off Alistair's battered helmet. His head ached at the violation, even as his eyes took in the merciful sunlight. Redcliffe village. Still standing, at dawn. A little worse for wear, perhaps, but intact. "Thank the Maker," he breathed, relief forming the prayer.

"No Makers here, kid," the stranger grumbled, helping him up into a sitting position. "Just dumb luck that we made it through."

"Who are you?" Alistair shucked off his gauntlets. They clanked quietly in the dust. "I should—" he took in a shuddering breath of air— "—thank you for, er, rescuing me." The wind was laced with the scent of pitch and fire.

"Fine. You're welcome." The dwarf bobbed his head, clapping him on the back as the coughing began. "Breathe. Name's Dwyn; pleased to see you have all your parts. I'm a Surfacer, obviously. Had the misfortune of choosing Redcliffe for expanding my business operations. Last night, a big nasty qunari press-ganged me and my boys into service. They weren't as lucky as me." Dwyn's eyes narrowed with concern. "Does that head of yours feel as bad as it looks?"

Alistair tentatively palpated the wound at his hairline. Fresh blood came away on his fingertips. "Last thing I remember is my helmet caving in. I was... then Morrigan..." He winced. "It's gone a little fuzzy. Why was I...?" He gestured uncomfortably to the mound, only a few feet away.

The dwarf ran his fingers down the length of his braided beard. "Yeah. About that.. Halfway through the fight, we realized that the undead were dragging the fresh-killed away. To make more of them creatures. So it wasn't enough to just save the living. We had to protect the fallen. What a fucking disaster that turned out to be. Piled them up in one place. Must be how you ended up middle of the stack." He cleared his throat. "The Warden sent me to retrieve your body."

 _The Warden?_ "You mean Lady Cousland?" Blood dripped from his crown, into his right eye. It stung madly, and he blinked pink tears down his cheek.

"Yeah, whatever. Your lady was real adamant about it. Said you didn't like to touch dead things," Dwyn harrumphed. "I thought she was just being a woman. How was I to know you were still breathing? We all thought you were dead. One minute I'm fishing for a corpse, the next, it's putting up a fight!"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Alistair chuckled darkly, pulling himself up onto his feet with the dwarf's help. "Can you tell me where I can find her?"

"The chantry courtyard has a tent set up for a field hospital. No one made it through without a story and a hurt to back it up. A lot more people will die before the day is through." He spat into the dust, leaving a little clod of mud at the toes of his boots. "They have no more healin' pots and far too many wounded bad."

The smile fell from Alistair's lips. "Is Lady Cousland...?"

"Nah. Not bad. Couple of scratches. I had the fortune of fighting beside her at the end. We dwarves have great respect for her kind. Never smelled the tunnel dank of the Deep Roads, myself, but still. It was a sight— a human rogue girlie who carves flesh like a mad berserker. The Warden lives up to the reputation of her order."

"I'm a Grey Warden, too," Alistair muttered, but was rather pleased by Dwyn's praise for his companion. _Friend? Lover?_ There would be time for that later.

"Yeah? I'm sure you gave it good, then, before they brained you. Like I said, it's all a matter of dumb luck. These poor people didn't have any." He spat again, as though warding off the hand of death with his superstitious compulsion.

Alistair spun to face the stack of bodies. With a proper look, the swarm of tangled limbs transformed into recognizable people. At the very top was a familiar face, the fat man who ran the tavern. Lloyd. Underneath him was a brown haired elf in splintmail, who had been conscripted into the ranks of the better archers. He didn't know this one's name. Would he want the burial rites of an elf, or was he as Andrastian? Did he have kin to contact?

"The Warden will want these people identified," Alistair instructed, testing out the strange honorific. "The pyres will need to be finished burning before tonight's sunset." The Warden. THE Warden. It felt as though he was talking about a different person. A new person. This "Warden" was... who? Friend of mages, political strategist, part-time spy?

Which of these women was he was falling for?

"I can ask around," acquiesced the dwarf, unhappy with the task. He rubbed his hands together. "But I'm not the man for that job. I want breakfast, and my bed— in that order. Good luck finding the Warden."

"Thank you, again." He stuck out a hand to shake, but froze, realizing his fingers were smeared sticky red. "Err, yes, thanks."

"Get that head looked at, kid," Dwyn ordered, rolling his eyes.

* * *

He found Leliana sleeping, head cradled in her own arms, sitting on a stool beside Morrigan's cot. The dark-haired witch was in a terrible condition; her skin was clammy and grey, and the dressings around her abdominal wound were spotted with blood. Someone had sponged her clean with great care, washing away the filth of the battle.

Unwilling to streak her with bloody hand prints, he rested only the knuckles of his left hand against her wrist, and pushed out with his mind. He felt the mana in her pulse, how drained she was as her body tried to repair itself, spending her reserves faster than she could regenerate.

"Templar magic," Morrigan croaked, eyelids fluttering open. "Casting spells on me, Alistair? Even without lyrium. Your Chantry has much to explain."

"They're not spells, they're _abilities_ ," he responded defensively, but checked himself, realizing how stupid he sounded. Now was not the time for that fight. "You're the one who needs lyrium right now."

"Lissa has... Lissa has her people looking." Her mouth was cracked and dry from bitter mouthfuls of elfroot tea. She spoke slowly, struggling for each word. "But I'm not the worst."

Alistair knew Morrigan was right. Under the shade of the enormous canvas tent, the dying moaned for relief which never came. When they prayed for water more than their mothers, the end was near. It was a final, terrible thirst. "If word made it to Kinloch, they may be sending a whole legion of mages and templars as we speak."

Morrigan laughed weakly. Her lips were so pale. Before her laughter could turn to coughing, he ladled out water from the drinking bucket and helped her sip. After a while, she continued: "You smell like the dead. And your optimism paints you a fool. Even two spirit healers could turn the tide here. But you templars fear a mage with a taste of the air outside a Circle!" She trembled with the effort of her anger.

"You should save your strength," he scolded, tucking the woolen blanket back up to her shoulders.

"You would make a better nurse than a prince." There was no sting to her words.

"You wound me," he chuckled, softly, mindful of their locale.

"T'was not me. T'was that creature with the great battleaxe."

His face darkened. "I remember now. You threw your ward onto me."

"I meant to prevent your death. At the time, I believed I failed." Her dark eyebrows, like bird wings resting on her pale forehead, came together in an ill-used expression. "Are you a spirit? I confess I am uncertain. The veil grows thin here, greedy for the dead."

Alistair shivered. How to answer such a question? "I'm me," he tried. "I mean, I'm as me as I was yesterday. I think. Pretty sure I'm alive." He gathered fresh blood from the wound on his head, and offered it to her as proof. "See? Still bleeding."

"Indeed," she agreed. "As am I?"

"You were hurt because of me."

"No." She shifted restlessly, trying to ignore the hot pain in her stomach. "I will not have you martyr me for the sake of conscience. Alistair, you fell protecting me. Foolishly, I felt obligated to return the favor."

"You—"

Morrigan interrupted. "Elissa and her archers held the right flank, for a time. But the dead were rising from the lake."

"I think... Sten was pulled from the left when the knights were overrun."

It was easier, after, to condense a battle into terse descriptions of position and count.

To forget the hellish sight of flaming undead swarming down the hill, bloodied with the lives of Perth's men, peppered with arrows, and still they came. How the villagers cried out in terror and ran, broken at the scene. How his veins turned to ice when he realized that Lissa was probably among the fallen. How he thrust himself into the melee, with Morrigan casting her spells at his side.

It was easier, to forget.

They were winning, even, the villagers rallying to the triumphant shouts of the surface dwarves, when the first arrow came from behind. He had blindly assumed friendly fire, a casualty to novice farmers clutching bows. But then the line collapsed, bulging, as the left flank rolled.

Dead rising from Lake Calenhad.

It was necessary, to forget.

"I am tired, now," Morrigan sighed, barely audible. "Go away." She closed her eyes. Somewhere close, a wife shrieked for a dead husband, inconsolable. "Bother Lissa instead. She'll... want to know, Alistair."

"What?"

"She needs to know you are not one of the dead."

"Oh. Right. Well, that's easy, isn't it? Just wave my very much alive hands in her direction!"

"You really are an ee-diot," groused Leliana, lifting her head from her cradled arms. "She is mourning." Her round face was lined with pink creases; her accent was thick with her exhaustion. "No one can come near her. She thinks she saw you perish! You were her friend, her first friend. And now she feels all alone. Andraste guide her."


	13. Battered

When Alistair finally found Elissa, it was only because he began to search all his old hiding places. Away from civilization, away from... the screaming. There she stood, naked as the dawn, modesty protected only by the thick boughs of the fur trees cradling a small, clear pool of water. Like tired old men, they bent around her pale form, cloaking her in evergreen. They bore the tattered remains of her armor, the sapphire blue uniform of the Grey Wardens, in their arms, as though at any moment they would whisk it away to be mended — the manservants of a great lady.

They shielded her, for she was... bloody. He found her raw, battered, bruised; the slices into her flesh seeping brown down her arms, a violent tattoo. Her leather had been torn asunder, her chainmail punctured by countless blows. Now, she bent and studied her reflection in the glass-pool, shattered it with her scooping fingers to splash her face clean. The cold sent shivers across her skin.

Elissa balanced on toes stretched and spread— like a dancer— like she was cooling her heels after a ball. They were small, once milky-white, feet meant for waltzing in soft velvet slippers, but long bruised a shocking violet. What would her mother think of those jagged and broken toenails on feet meant for dancing? Feet meant for some rich lord's bride?

He found no words adequate would come to his lips. He was a ghost, after all, wasn't he? A clumsy, ugly ghost with heavy footfalls and she would startle like a deer. The sun was properly up now, lemon-yellow-hot, burning away the mist off of Lake Calenhad. Somewhere near and yet far away, the water was turning from inky navy to grey, slopping against the docks and the moored fishing boats, rising in choppy waves to splash up in a baptism of oily water.

Still, it must be managed.

"I have coffee," he started, but it caught in the lump in his throat. Swallowed, began again: "I have _coffee_ , and a, um, blanket."

The girl glanced up with dull, tired eyes, fingers still poised on her face. "Real coffee?" Her shoulders were tense, muscles rippling in anticipation, but her voice was calm.

He sniffed the brown stuff. "Er, no, sorry. I think it's chicory." Alistair took a tiny sip of the scalding liquid from the tin cup. "Yup, that's chicory. Damn. With the borders closed, the nobility is probably hording the real thing... But the blanket is nice and it has fresh biscuits in it. Reasonably fresh. Few days old, at most." He took a breath. "I'm babbling."

"You keep your biscuits in your blanket?"

"Well, I only have two hands, don't I?" he smiled blithely.

"Give it, then. I'm starving." Elissa stood at his approach; he couldn't help but scour her body with his eyes, starving in his own way. Her breasts rose to greet him, the pink nipples taut with the chill of the water. He lingered on the fingerling bruises dotting her ribs, where a rough hand had shoved her away. A knight?

Her body was a map of the battle.

How long had it been since she'd slept? Two days? She didn't need coffee, she needed a sleeping draught and a deep bed. Something she was not likely to get. "Here," he offered, and handed over his peace offering.

"Thank you," she said, only after she drank deep of the fragrant, bitter cup. "Whose clothes are those?"

Alistair glanced down to the farmer's kit he was wearing – tunic, leggings, boots – all sized for a larger man. "I don't know," he shrugged, nonchalant, unwilling to voice that they probably belonged to a dead man. "Adelaide lent them to me; I couldn't find my pack."

"Adelaide?" Elissa bit into a soft biscuit and closed her eyes, savoring.

"Oh, you know—" but he caught himself. "Actually, I forgot, you don't know. It's strange, being home."

"I imagine," she said, the paltry warmth abandoning her voice. He flinched, and was glad she did not see it. Quickly, he settled the ram's wool blanket around her shoulders, crumbs and all, for lack of anything else to do. It hung off her bony shoulders like so many refugees before her.

"Adelaide is an apothecary. _The_ apothecary, rather. She's a... friend, I guess." She was a plain-faced, stubborn woman of indeterminate years; it seemed she had no more grey hairs than when he had last seen her, ten years before. The child of hedge mages, she had been born without their gift (their curse?) but knew every secret place, every magic ritual, every story Redcliffe had to offer. As a child, he had lapped up her knowledge like the stray dog he was; as an adult, he found it hard to forgive her for seeing the templar-potential inside of him.

Elissa cracked an eye, cat-like. "A _friend_ -friend?"

"Maker," Alistair sputtered, falling for her wind-up, "not like that. She's old! You won't be jealous if I say she was like a mother to me, yeah?"

"I'm never jealous. I hope this Adelaide is keeping herself busy, this morning. Andraste knows we need healing potions."

"They're using them faster than she can brew," he confirmed. It was a grim thought. "Much good that it's doing. Her herb supply is exhausted, and her apprentice cannot go out for more, what with the darkspawn in the forest."

"We could-"

"We _can't_ ," he interrupted, surprised at his own firmness. "Not one of us is fit to swing a stick right now. Even ol' Barkspawn is licking his wounds, and Sten is Maker-only-knows... " She wilted at these words. Her drink fell with a splash.

He caught her, as instinctual as breathing, and she sagged into his embrace. Alistair gently settled them in the grass, cradling her in his lap. He could feel the air hitch in her lungs before the wetness leaked out of her closed lashes.

He sighed, "Lissa..." Against her ear: "It's okay. You've a right to be exhausted." Her naked skin was fever-hot, burning him with its contact. His stomach burned with it, acid in his chest, like the fish-sour breeze off the lake had failed.

Pressed together, but miles apart, and he felt the lash of her angry sniffles as though it was somehow his fault for getting his brain bashed in. Her accusation roared up between them: "You died!"

"I didn't, though." His words belayed the siege in his heart, the indomitable ache.

"Don't lie to me! I saw you—" a splash of tears, furiously wiped away. "You dropped like a stone. I was just twenty fucking feet away. Again!"

"It was just— Addy sewed up my head. Got concussion, had a real headache until she gave me something for that, but—"

"Some peasant bastard dragged you away before I could touch you," she continued, as though she couldn't hear him, "Before you came back as one of those undead shitheads!" Her voice rose in hysteria. "All this time you've been here, I knew you were a desire demon, but I couldn't bring myself to- you- I'll take your fucking deal! Whatever you want from me. Just let me keep him. Please?" Her green eyes were unfocused, tears streaming blindly down her face.

 _Maker's breath_. _She think's I'm—_

He shook her, hard as he could, trying to snap her out of it: "Elissa Cousland! I'm not a desire demon! Not any more demon-y than I was yesterday. Not any more dead-" _Fuck._ "Not any more dead than I've been since Flemeth dragged our Maker-forsaken souls back through the Veil and into our bodies." He choked down a gulp of air. "Maybe we're both dead men walking, but-" He grabbed her hand, smashed it against his chest. "Feel? Still beating." Alistair cupped her left breast, careless, feeling her pulse quake in the palm of his hand. "And you, too."

"Yes."

"I'm real. You're real."

"Yes." She shuddered.

"A desire demon would have brought you real coffee and fresh biscuits," he muttered against her hair. It was matted, salty with sweat and grime, the curls a stiff mockery of themselves.

"Undoubtedly." A thin, reedy laugh. Unsteady.

"You'd really have asked for me? And not, say... Howe on a silver platter?"

"Don't get a swelled head," she scolded, but her mouth curled up. Almost a smile.

He smeared away the wet from her hollow cheeks, clumsy but sincere. "I will, though. That's the kind of person I am."

"I know. I'm... I'm still not entirely convinced you're not a demon rooting around in my memories of Alistair Theirin."

An involuntary twitch. "Don't call me that, Lis. Bastards don't—"

"Bastard's don't get their father's surname, yes, I believe we've had this argument before." She rested her head against his throat. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Um..."

"Be more convincing than that." Delicate, she dipped her feet in the water, hissing with relief.

"We should really find you some clothes, and some bandages for your arms," he hedged. _And a bath,_ he added silently.

"Alistair."

"Right. The only story I can think of is kind of dumb."

"Tell it anyway."

"Have I ever told you I'm a master peeler?"

"Huh?" she wrinkled her nose.

"Potatoes, turnips, beets, carrots... you name a root vegetable and I've probably done it."

"Really?"

"I know, it's sooooo impressive. I brag to all the ladies about how I've spent half my life in a kitchen," he chuckled. "I must have been no more than six years old the first time I got smuggled through the servant's passages in the castle. Had to avoid the sweet temper of the arlessa."

"Orlesian bitch."

"Quite. Once I was there, well, it wouldn't have been fair to the kitchen boys for them to work and me to, uh, not work. They thought it was _hilarious_ , of course. The likkle bastard lordling doing chores for the bottom-rung servants. Eventually, I started escaping outside of the castle entirely. Master Dennet always had a soft spot in the hay for me if it wasn't safe to go home at night. And even better, none of the village kids knew who I was. Just another orphan."

Elissa's breathing was softer. "You say that like no other noble's child has ever spent a moment in their kitchens."

"Hm?" This was not the response he had expected.

"I don't feel sorry for you." She stroked the bristle of his beard with her calloused fingers. This made a pleasant scraping noise. "My Nan ran ours at Castle Cousland, when I was big enough to leave the nursery. I spent many an hour at her hearth, allegedly practicing my knife skills, but honestly just peeling for her. Fergus and Gilmore, too. We all started out terrible. It's honest enough."

"Oddly enough, that makes me feel a little better about the whole thing." He smiled against her. "Who is Gilmore? I don't recognize that name."

She shook her head. "I'm not sure I should... That just slipped out, sorry. I don't want to talk about him."

"Lissa?" he probed.

"I don't know if he's alive or dead or worse, Alistair. But if he's alive, I want to respect—" she hesitated. "I want to do better than I did with you. Not just blurting things out because I'm tired..."

"I see," he said. "He was there, when Highever was sacked?"

"Right beside me, through the thick of it. Fergus and the majority of our troops had left only hours before it began, in the service of the king. Howe could have never- if we hadn't been split up. The remainder were mine, and they're all dead."

"That wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it, though? You said it yourself, that I don't think clearly during a fight. Before, sure. Andraste's nightgown, when you went down last night, I just about lost my mind." Her voice trembled, but her eyes were far away, lost in the shadows of her memory. "I did lose my mind. I hardly remember anything after that. Gave orders in a fog, to that dwarf..."

"Dwyn," he prompted.

"Yes, him. Couldn't let you... couldn't let you rot. You'd hate that. Had to take you away from those corpses, find the right prayers, build a pyre..." Punctuating that thought was the coiling plume of black funeral smoke, the odor of burning bodies on the wind, high above the trees.

"You don't need to think about that any more. I'm here." It was like she was lyrium-addled. "Lissa, come back to me, sweetheart," he crooned, rocking her.

"Gilly went to hold them off. I had to let him. I made a mistake. It was supposed to be him, Duncan came to make _him_ the Warden. Another bastard for his collection," Elissa keened, and he ached for her. "You would have liked him, my half-brother, if I had died instead. Died dead. He would have... made a excellent Warden..."

"Lissa. This is battle fatigue. You need to come back to me now," he whispered, but he could not reach her.

Her chattering dissolved into nonsense, mumbling, groans which frightened him to the core. Battle fatigue. Once it started, some people never escaped from its hold. And they were miles away from any healer. "Let him rot, couldn't let you rot," she said urgently, as he scooped her up, shielded her fragile body with fabric.

"You're safe."

"Alonealonealone," she whimpered, wild eyes rolling in her head, as he carried her, fast as his legs would take him, to Adelaide. The Storyteller always knew what to do. She could fix this. She could fix _her_. She had to.


	14. Home

With a bellyful of restorative, and the crumble of days-old bread melting under his tongue, Alistair found respite. The chunks were sodden with salty fish broth, a staple dish of life by the lake. If he'd ever had a proper home, he would have liked it to be something like Adelaide's hut.

It had been hours since he'd carried Elissa to safety, though it felt much longer. To distract himself he fed, prayed, and debriefed Leliana, who was taking up the mantle of Warden Commander in the daylight. He'd rolled bandages, carted corpses, and sent another urgent missive to Kinloch in the claws of Leliana's raven. Anything to avoid looking past the curtain, into the back room.

It wasn't working.

"And you're sure it was the very same Flemeth, the sorceress of Highever? From the stories?" asked the woman as she tended to her glass burettes, full of red healing liquid. It was delicate work, diluting the concentrated elfroot into flasks of tincture.

Her skill and her instruments hearkened less to a peasant healer and more to a court surgeon. Adelaide's training, like every cunning woman and village elder before her, was part magical theory and part intuition. This was low magic – common cures acceptable to Maker-fearing folk, who turned a blind eye as long as the cows were cured of pox and the babes were born living more often than not.

High magic – Primal, Entropy, Creation, Spirit, and other derivations within these categories – was jealously hoarded by the Circles. Magic for the mages. Even with all that knowledge, the gifted walked the razor's edge between glory and possession.

Well... so said the Order. It was unclear if they could conceptualize a world beyond black and white. Alistair had never asked their opinion of people like his friend, Adelaide. He wasn't sure he'd like the answer.

Alcoholic spirits drew the essence from the herbs— embrium for infection, deep mushroom for broken bones, Prophet's Laurel to purify wounds and ease burns, spindleweed to ease the pain of the dying... But when these ran out, there would be no more. The village was under siege from all sides: here undead, there darkspawn. The last of the powdered dawn lotus had been spent, and though Alistair did not know its particular purpose, he had gathered from her lecturing that it only grew in the southern wetlands. Nothing to be done for that, now.

"The very same Flemeth," he echoed, with his arm covering his eyes. "At least, according to her daughter. It's a bit of a prickly subject." Alistair lay on a reed mat, warm from the stones of the hearth. The pain in his battered skull was tremendous. "One of those complex mother-daughter dynamics."

He could hear Addy searching around in her bookshelves, which crowded the floor. The boards creaked pleasantly, the smell of leather and paper and dried herbs as comfortingly familiar as the red soil clinging to his boots. "So you've met one of the infamous daughters, then? V—something? Va...van...ya...? Damn my old memory, my head is getting crowded," she snorted.

"No, that's not right, you have it wrong. She's called Morrigan."

"Then your friend has an older sister."

"She's _not_ my friend. And I'm pretty sure there's just the one. They shared a bed."

Addy tapped him roughly with the toe of her shoe, as she stepped over him. "You're not too old for a caning, Master Alistair."

"I am so!"

"Just try me," she scolded, and scrubbed at the bloom of rosacea on her red, round cheeks.

"But my bruises have bruises on them," Alistair complained. It was irritating, feeling like a child in her presence, and reverting back to infantile bickering.

"My healing potions would be twice as effective if you'd take a sleeping tonic." She reached up high for a book. "The young lady will not catch you dozing at your post, I promise."

His eyes flicked to the curtain, which divided off a small portion of the hut into a bedroom. Elissa was... she was... Well, at least she was safe. _Delirium_ , was Adelaide's diagnosis, _from this wretched fever_. Alistair suspected it was a good deal more complicated than that.

"I don't want to sleep."

"Oh?"

"Flemeth did something to us, at the beginning of all this. Ever since then, I've been having nightmares. And not just the usual, nasty, Warden-related nightmares." A lingering pang of guilt: _'Haven't gotten around to telling Lis about the Call.'_

Though they'd never spoken of it, he knew those same dreams tormented Elissa, now. The roar of a dragon sent her skittering to consciousness in the middle of the night, the jeers of the darkspawn purpled the shadows under her eyes. The Call was just too strong, during a Blight, so compelling. What must it be like for the other Wardens, in other lands, driven mad with longing for the fight? Or would distance bring relief? If only Duncan were alive to ask!

"What did she do?" asked Addy. "Did she want to _make a deal_?" This was posed not with disgust, but with poorly concealed curiosity. "What does she look like? The stories my old Dalish mam told would have curled your hair."

"It's complicated, I don't know, sort of, she's an old woman, aaaaand maybe," he rattled off in reply, counting each answer on his fingers. "Ask one question at a time!"

"But do you actually know anything?" The folds around her mouth deepened when she pursed her lips. "Tell me you know _something_."

"I resent the insinuation. Why does everyone think I'm not paying attention?"

"You're a good lad," she soothed with a benign smile, "But you come across as a wee bit dozy."

"Hmph," he huffed. He turned to stare into the embers, considering Flemeth while trying very hard not to think of her daughter. The apothecary's assistant, Marla, was with her now, with a spirited bit of illegal lyrium from the herbalist's most private stores.

Adelaide reached into the pocket of her apron, and pulled out a small statuette. "I found this tucked behind my copy of _Lector's Codex_. Recognize it?"

Alistair sat upright. "That's one of my soldiers! Uncle Teagan gave it to me for my seventh birthday. Why do you have it—?" he asked, but began to answer for her. "I must have stashed it away before..."

"Before the templars came for you," she finished, gently handing him his old favorite. "I kept it safe." The toy was not wood, like many others of his collection, but marble, and so quite heavy for its size. It had a real metal spear, with a blunted tip, and chips of sapphire set in the eyes. In his adult hand, it was no bigger than his index finger, but as a lad, it had seemed too heavy for everyday games.

"I hated you that day," he admitted softly. "Maker's breath, I hated you almost as much as I hated Eamon." He studied the statuette carefully, admiring all the fine details of the carving.

"I know. I understood why."

"Magic." Alistair spat the word. Shame curdled his stomach. "That's what it always comes down to. I don't know if the arl ever knew, but the Knight-Commander sussed it out. Said Eamon should have drowned it out of me."

Not enough to be called a mage. Just a flicker of latent power, enough to warm a cold bed, or ripen a piece of fruit, or— Most children like himself were dampened with the right charm, too weak to be useful to a Circle but too strange to be left unchecked. Even one drop of mage's blood meant danger. There were other ways they could be controlled, according to the Chantry traditions. You could bleed the child with leaches, then burn the worms in holy fire. You could hold them under water until it expired within them. (Or they drowned, frothing the water. Better to be dead than to be a mage.)

But—

He could cast templar spells without a speck of lyrium. That's what they were, spells, even though they never called them that. Morrigan couldn't understand, could she? His real gift was sensitivity to magic in others. He tried desperately not to use it, but the templar conditioning made it even harder to ignore. _If Duncan hadn't saved me, they would have made me a witch-hunter._ _Andraste help me, I would have been good at it, too._ Lyrium-doped and soaked through with righteous morality, they would have jerked his leash through every swamp and ruin.

Alistair could no longer remember if he had always detested his abilities, or if the hatred had been beaten into him by the other boys.

"Did Asha'bellanar mention your... gift?" She worded this so delicately, as though he might scream.

He wanted to scream. He laughed, humorlessly. "No. But I think she knew. She knew who my father was, too. Just by looking at me. That's why she saved me. For the irony."

The statue stared blankly back at him. All the life his imagination had imbued it with as a child was stripped away by time. _The templar-elect with the witch's gift, the bastard prince sterilized by the Grey Wardens just before he became heir to the throne he never wanted. Hilarious._

"What did she do?"

"What _didn't_ she do? We're Fade-touched. I think we were so close to death that she had to pull us back through the Veil."

Adelaide frowned. "That's powerful dark magic, Alistair. I've only read about demons and abominations doing something like that, and no one ever comes back with their soul intact..." she chattered on as she pulled down yet another book.

"Wonderful," he croaked, feeling a lump form in his throat. ' _What are the symptoms of possession?'_ he wondered. ' _Pustules, night sweats, unexplained vomiting?_ _No, that's maybe the plague. Are my eyes glowing? Evil glowing?'_

She pulled him back from his anxieties. "You say it's giving you nightmares?"

"The same dream," he nodded, "Over and over. I'm standing on the northern shores, on a beach. A woman speaks to me. The first time, it was several women, but now, just the one. Only, I can never remember what she says."

"Not much of a nightmare."

 _'I always drown,'_ he thought. "It ends bad," he said.

"And you're concerned that this is a demon trying to tempt you?"

"Or maybe a spirit, trying to warn me. She's an elf, a mage, in very elaborate robes."

"Do you know her?"

"No. I mean, I don't think I do." He scratched at the back of his neck. "I think she might be foreign, from the accent."

"Could be anyone or any _thing._ You say you think you're Fade-touched? Have you read Mareno's dissertation?" She proposed a slim black volume, old and surprisingly well thumbed. Books had been her father's great love, the librarian of Redcliffe in the days of Eamon's grandfather.

"Who's Mareno?" he asked as accepted her offering. "Ah, yes, a Senior Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle, 6:55 Steel— says right here on the cover. No, I don't know it. Should I?"

"Read at the ribbon," she suggested, and he flicked open to the marker.

"You know, it's probably illegal for you to own this," he murmured, more to himself. He skimmed until he found something of interest. "Um, ah—

" _Regardless, the act of passing through the Veil is much more about changing one's perceptions than a physical transition. The Veil is an idea, it is the act of transition itself, and it is only the fact that both living beings and spirits find the transition difficult that gives the Veil any credence as a physical barrier at all._

"Right. I— uh, so what this theory means is we could be changed without actually being possessed, or anything," he posited, feeling very much like he was reliving the failures of his schoolboy days. "Yes?"

"You are the one with practical experience, Master Alistair. I just have a memory for words. Keen as that might be, I'm afraid your education may very well surpass mine in matters of magic."

Alistair grimaced. _'She's avoiding answering me.'_ "But the Orlesian woman in my dream... Wait, do _you_ know her?"

She paused, and for a second he thought that she knew exactly what he meant. But it was just a flicker on her lips, and when her face turned regretful, he knew that he had been mistaken. "No, I cannot help you. I had the dubious pleasure of knowing some Orlesians in the days of the occupation, but no mages. The only elves I've known were like my mam and my Marla."

"Exiled Dalish?"

"Half breeds who look too human to live happy among their kin," she said, deliberately tugging on her own blunted ear. "The dwarves have their casteless..."

Alistair smiled grimly. "The men have their bastards."

"You keep saying that, and people will begin to talk," interrupted a third voice. The curtain parted, and a slender woman with blood colored hair tread softly into the room, bare footed and wearing borrowed clothes. "Theirin."

"Elissa!" He stood up, scrambling, to intercept her. "You shouldn't be."

"I will not have your pity. I am quite myself now," she swallowed. She attempted to wave him away, but he was used to ignoring her noble airs. When Alistair's broad arm cinched around her waist, she still mumbled _sotto voce,_ "thank you."

The soft deer hide trousers must have belonged to Marla. They actually fit her petite frame, sized as they were for an elf. But the shirtwaist was definitely sewn for a human woman, and thus of indeterminate origin. She smelled unlike herself, pungent with sickness. He buried his face in her hair, though it was damp with fever-sweat, distracted by the heat and the sheer longing that struck at him. It was as though there was a thread stretched between them, the tautness becoming unbearable the longer they were separated.

"Warden, it's much too soon for you to be on your feet," the herbalist chided, unbothered by titles and airs. "You are ill." She waggled a book at them.

"You have me at a disadvantage," replied Elissa, ignoring the rebuke. Her hands were clammy, and he could see the sweat beading sour on her throat. "You have known me intimately, but we have not been introduced. Alistair, may I hazard the guess that this is one of your old friends?"

"If it pleases. Elissa, this is Adelaide the Storyteller, of Redcliffe Village. Addy, this is Lady Elissa Cousland, late of Castle Cousland. Et cetera, et cetera." He rolled his eyes, where Lis could not see.

"My lady," intoned Adelaide dryly. Still, he caught her dropping her eyes respectfully to the floor. A habit of her station. "Many apologies. Alistair failed to inform me I was hosting a teryn's daughter."

"He does that."

"I do not!" he protested into her scalp. Elissa would have never tolerated his familiarity in the presence of others, if she were more herself. Instead, she accepted his caresses without a complaint. Drugged to numbness with spindleweed.

"I'm in no mood for..." she searched for a word, and settled on, "Formalities, Goody Adelaide. Warden will do." Lissa's green eyes, dull and bleary, scanned the beam of light which crept under the door. "Thank you for your assistance, but I must... Wait, how long was I out?"

"Most of the day," Alistair admitted. "Sunset is an hour or two off."

She lurched in his arms. "Damn it all. How could you!"

"Half the things you were saying made less sense than a demented templar. Now sit down," he barked back, even surprised with himself. "Sit down and eat." The fight went out of her all at once, knees turned to jelly, and he guided her to the only stool in the hut.

"Well then, at least let me assist you with this," she exhaled, glancing to the potion brewing equipment on the table in front of her. She seemed... embarrassed? Alistair sensed that he may have wounded her pride, and felt guilty for hurting her.

"First, food—" he tried to be more gentle, but was interrupted.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Adelaide said, sizing up her patient with an inscrutable eye.

"Enough. More than the other daughters of teryns you know, I'd wager."

"I don't know any, my lady Warden."

"Then you'll have to take my word for it. —Yes, Andraste's eyeteeth, Alistair, if you're in such a tizzy about my nourishment, then get me something. My mouth tastes like the business end of a mabari." She set still-trembling hands around a mortar and pestle, and sniffled the air. "Just don't make me cut anything. Dinner smells positively foul, I'll have some of whatever that is. Fish?"

"Of course, dear," he found himself saying, even as she launched into a rapid discussion with the other woman on the state of the herb supply, and would everyone who needed a dose get some in time for sundown?

' _It's funny,'_ he thought, ' _She can barely stand upright, but she's back to giving orders. And I can't help but want to take them, Maker help me.'_

"Will there be enough capable fighters to hold another night?" she asked him as he set a lukewarm bowl of broth before her. It was scummy and glistening with fat.

He addressed the bowl, rather than stare into Elissa's sunken cheeks. "Ahem. Working on the assumption that the undead will retreat in the sunlight, as they did this morning, we spent the afternoon fortifying the chantry doors, and rearranging the barricades. Teagan had the idea to hold out siege style, like we could at the castle." She tsked under her breath, but he plunged on. "We've sent a raven to Kinloch and a rider to Rainesfere, on the fastest horse we have left."

"But—"

"We can't evacute! The wagons have been smashed into barricades, and what horses weren't eaten are mostly old nags. And there aren't nearly enough healthy folk to stave off the darkspawn crawling in the hills."

"That's not what I was going to say," she said, lowering the bowl from her lips. "The siege tactic is sound, Alistair, considering what we have left. But we must press through to the castle. Stop it at the source."

"How? I mean, they tried. Redcliffe is impregnable."

Her eyes darkened. "So was Castle Cousland. But the enemy still got in."

"Lissa..."

"Assuming that it isn't Eamon himself summoning the foul creatures..." she sipped delicately— "There will be unguarded passageways. Who else knows every nook and cranny? Teagan? You?"

"I know most of them, but I wouldn't say I know them all." He frowned. "Come to think of it, I know there were a few passages that lead outside the castle. One goes down to a cavern beneath the foundation. Hmmm. Another surely comes up somewhere in the village. They were keyed so that only Guerrin heirs could use them."

"Keyed like the village gates?" she asked carefully, flicking her eyes to Adelaide. He knew she was querying about more blood magic.

"Only my uncles would know," he answered, watching the muscles in her neck work as she swallowed. A troublesome thought: "You didn't really mean it when you said Arl Eamon could be causing all of this, right?"

"You'd have to ask Morrigan, for it was her theory. Something that had to do with complex curses... How is she?"

"Bad." Blowing air between his teeth, he found himself unwilling to burden her with the prognosis. _If_ she made it through the night. _If_ Kinloch templars and mages came in time. _If_ they brought lyrium. _If_ they did not execute her for being a witch.

"My apprentice has been with her all afternoon. Your friend is gravely wounded, and is resting in the chantry," said Adelaide, passing toward the doorway to the outside. "If you will allow me leave, I will go see if Marla needs me there. The healing potions must rest for an hour, at minimum."

"Of course. Thank you, Goody Adelaide."

"Maker bless you, Warden," Addy murmured. Unexpectedly, he sensed it was with sincerity. Then, she drew up her skirts and left them alone.

When the door shut behind her, the room was dropped back into the thin light of the embers in the hearth, and the singular lamp above the table. The stink of herbs could be tasted on the tongue. Elissa dropped her half-full bowl of soup, preferring to pick restlessly at the bandage covering her forearm.

"Morrigan in the Chantry! I bet she just hates that." A thin smile.

"To be honest, I don't know that she even knows she's there, Lis."

As gentle as he could make it, her shoulders still slumped. For a moment, Alistair saw the vulnerable girl beneath her tough shell, surrounded by friends, and still alone. Then, she blinked those big green eyes, and hardened again.

"I see. You know, my... Ser Gilmore once told me, 'A few villages are a small price to pay to save the world.' He was speaking of course of Warden duty, though at the time I was preoccupied. When Duncan conscripted me in front of my dying father, I took on that burden, even if I am just coming to know it. We sorely need Eamon's support, but there may not be anything left for Redcliffe to offer."

"But Elissa, you know I refuse to abandon them. These are my people. If you feel the Wardens must retreat—" They couldn't. They wouldn't? Would they? "Even to save the world! I'll fight here until my last breath."

"As it stands, you might get that wish," she replied, laughing mirthlessly. "You have made your feelings on the matter abundantly clear, and I respect them. Maker's breath. I understand, Alistair. Exquisitely."

The tightness in his chest eased by a degree. "Of course." _'I wonder if I'll be just like her,'_ he thought, _'splintered by losses until I'm no longer myself.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adelaide is modeled on the "Storyteller" in Redcliffe, who is eager to tell the Inquisitor all about how young King Alistair grew up in her village. Somebody had to look after that child, and it certainly wasn't going to be Isolde.


	15. Templar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has minor character death

Castle Redcliffe was older than the Guerrin dynasty, older than Ferelden itself. Once a mere caer of the Clayne people, the sandstone blockhouse had been improved upon over the centuries by master builders, until the fortress was completed in the Exalted Age. While ruins like Calenhad's Foothold moldered into dust, the namesake castle of the southern lake region was mindfully tended, not a chink to be found in her armor. Sitting on the bloody cliffs, surrounded by deep water on all sides, the only obvious point of ingress was the grand bridge which spanned the chasm. On the other side of that was the village, nestled in a valley, protected by natural impediments and high walls sealed by ancient magic. It was a hard place to traverse, proud of its long history of being unassailable.

Only thrice had siege defeated Redcliffe— by the hand of the Silver Knight, the future King Calenhad; by the Orlesian invasion of 8:24 Blessed; and finally by Eamon himself. Tonight, their little band would not be attempting anything as direct and impressive. Elissa Cousland, taking a page from her enemy's playbook, knew the easy part would be getting inside. If one was a Guerrin, one knew that the old windmill stood sentinel over a deep passageway, which tunneled under the lake itself.

Much harder would be getting back out with their lives intact.

The deepest dungeons were cool and dark; they stunk of mildew and rat droppings, and now, more— "More corpse-y," commented Alistair, as he scraped gore off his sword with the heel of his boot. "Definitely more corpse-y than usual." It was fortunate that the undead were only sparsely populating this area of the castle, for he was but one man protecting three.

"I should think so. Unless your arl is in the habit of torturing his prisoners." The stench from barrels of old fish made Elissa's stomach turn; she kept a sachet of lavender and mint in the scarf around her neck.

"In Castle Redcliffe? No, never in a million years. Howe on the other hand, he probably— what is his place called?"

"Vigil's Keep" Elissa supplied, blandly.

"Vigil's Keep! He probably..." he stopped himself. He was used to her reacting to Howe's name with bit more vigor. This blank disinterest was new. "Probably racks them up for sport," finished Alistair, with less gusto than intended.

" _Really,_ Alistair—" Bann Teagan began to chastise, but then reconsidered—"Although, there have always been rumors."

She laughed, darkly. "Mother warned to stay far from the Kendells boy; no decent family would have ever wed their daughter off to Vaughan, heir of Denerim or not..." A mottled blush crept up her neck, and she did not finish her thought. Time among soldiers had coarsened her tongue. "Rumors about Rendon Howe? No. Certainly Father would have known."

"Maker take your father to His side, milady, but Bryce was well known in the court for his unrelenting optimism."

"Really?"

"How else could you account for his lasting friendship with a cretin like Rendon?"

"Why Teagan, how _politic_ of you," Elissa approved. "Under the wing of Father's, as you said, 'optimism', what Howe did to us..." Her laugh was shrill, and bounced back off the mossy stones. He wanted to reach out for her, and ached to comfort her, but thought better of it. Best not to reveal any intimacy between them in the presence of others, lest it be perceived as weakness. "How much I have to learn! Just weeks ago, I would have taken comfort in the lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, in the sweet water of justice. But the well is poisoned."

"Well said, dear lady." Elissa leaned on Teagan for support; her free hand sat on the hilt of her dagger, just in case she was needed. The toes of her boots dragged scuff marks in the dust with each step, and though her legs were shorter, she managed to keep stride with him.

In a way, it was like a beautiful waltz. A bizarre notion, but true nonetheless. The former templar, who had spent years practicing the footwork of precise swordplay, knew choreography when he saw it.

They, Lissa and Teagan, had danced together before, at Cailan and Anora's wedding. For the first time in his life, Alistair actually wished he had been there. She'd been much younger then, just an awkward, clumsy child, the way they told the story; but knowing her age and the time since passed, Elissa must have been already a young woman. How had she been before her Joining? He tried to conjure up the image of her wearing some ornate dress, lit by soft light candlelight and surrounded by orchestral music, but his imagination only offered: a flash of blue armor, the flicker of sharp blades, the stench of blood.

Alistair shuddered. The dark was maybe getting to him, just a little bit.

Four flights up, just as they stopped to recover their breath, Teagan broke the silence. "Something occurs to me, which had not before. When Loghain called the bannorn, I found myself arguing with him, before I thought to still my tongue. The banns could hardly believe his demands. We have always maintained the independent control of our armies, and the king has always respected this, happily or not, since the days of Myrrdin. To declare himself regent to Queen Anora, to conscript our men before we could pledge them... There is to be martial law, and a bounty—" Teagan frowned.

Elissa bowed her head, though her voice was deceptively mild. "We know of the bounty on the Wardens."

"Yes, of course you would. Maker's breath, he's always been a pragmatic, reasonable sort of man. Most respected of all by Maric, and by my nephew Cailan, and a dear friend to my late sister. The Loghain I know would never have retreated from the field where his king fell."

Even though he had never met the man face to face, Alistair began to honestly consider that Loghain must know of his existence. He wasn't sure which troubled him more, the idea that the general wanted them dead because they were witnesses to his betrayal, or that he wanted them dead because Alistair was a direct threat to the throne. Was she in danger specifically because she knew him?

' _If Duncan had never known who I really was, then I could have been there with him, at the end. But Duncan was Maric's friend. And if Duncan knew me because of Maric, then Loghain knew me too.'_

Nausea rose up from his belly, filling his mouth with fresh saliva, as he knew it to be true. What's more, Lissa had known days ago. He was sick under the burden, and felt his palms go slick with sweat under his gauntlets. This was what she had meant by his 'pretty face' putting them all in mortal peril. Once again, his blood was determined to haunt him, but this time his perception was altered. What good was it, really, to guard the secret of his birth any longer? When he was just a boy, he had understood it was to protect Cailan. _'Loghain wants me dead. No wait, scratch that. He_ _ **needs**_ _me dead.'_

He asked Teagan, "You think he should have recovered the king's body?"

"I am not the first to say so. Bann Sighard of Dragon's Peak was particularly offended by the breach in tradition. Cailan was not like Maric, lost to the sea— sorry, Alistair, I'm sure the subject is just as sore for you as it is for me..."

"No, it's fine, really," he mumbled, unconvincing, but Teagan failed to take notice, impassioned by the fire of his feelings.

"He was abandoned to be desecrated. No holy rites as befitting a king, no cremation!" said Teagan vehemently, spittle flying from his lips. "He may never be recovered from the Wilds."

"No one has returned to Ostagar? Will the dead remained unburied?"

Alistair glanced behind, and earned a glimpse of her face, though it was was made strange in the shadows. She was perhaps thinking of her brother, Fergus, and maybe all the other Highever lads lost that day. The bruise on her neck, a trophy of their first night together, had faded away to nothing under the effects of the healing potions. The cut on her face, earned in Lothering, was but a thin pink line, invisible unless you knew to look for it.

She limped only slightly, with her feet bound tight in bandages to the ankles. Under her boots, her ankles were on the blacker side of blue, and swollen to twice their usual size. With each soft hitch in her breath, every time she reached for Teagan to steady her, Alistair knew that the pain was bothering her. _He_ wanted to be the one she leaned on. It was a stupid thought; someone needed to fend off the dead. Teagan was a politician, a mediocre swordsman at best. But the jealous little voice in him needled that Elissa seemed calmer, with Teagan by her side. Was it something in their noble blood that resonated in proximity? If so, Maric had failed to pass it on to him—

 _'Of course, it could be something that noble parents teach their noble children,'_ he thought, distracting himself by chopping down a crawling corpse before it could get near Isolde. A pool of black bile swirled around his boots. ' _Which still leaves me at a disadvantage._ '

The illness of Arlessa Isolde's husband had added more lines to her face than aging ever had, and streaks of dried tears and kohl coated her palid cheeks. Strands of premature white flickered through her strawberry hair. Her expensive gown was soiled with Maker-knows-what, some sort of brown stain that might have been blood. She lingered a little behind them, moaning under her breath that she was only supposed to bring 'Teeguh' into the castle. That her child, Connor, had gone mad in the face of so much horror. Well, hadn't they all?

Elissa would not let Teagan go without her, despite her injuries being only half-healed. What was a broken rib, or a stitched wound (or five), when so much was at stake? There was a near-constant vibration in Alistair's battered skull, picking up on magic, but he ignored it as best as he could. His eyes buzzed from the stimulants in the restorative potions; he drank them like water, greedy for that potent little burst of energy. Even Teagan had accepted a dose; excited nerves had turned the man into parody of himself. Always a quick talker, he now prattled at lightning speed.

"It would be a long trek 'round the horde, Lady Cousland, even if one could find some path through the upper wilds. The bulk have left Ostagar to wreck havoc northward."

"It could be done. Why, Alistair and I—" she considered. "You'd have to pass through the lowlands and into the Fallow Mire, then come northward. But who could spare the men but Loghain himself?"

"The Blight may soon pass over us," said the pinch-faced older man. Isolde clutched her hands to her face and groaned. "Or it may leave the Hinterlands entirely, and swing toward Denerim. I am not privy to Loghain's strategies, but I can tell you what I do know. Redcliffe called for aid, and the regent refused to answer."

"Convenient, isn't it? Eamon's illness, and this curse now upon Redcliffe?"

"Are you suggesting it may not be a coincidence? I have come to suspect this myself. Ferelden hurdles toward civil war. If Loghain is somehow involved, it is the act of a desperate man. To employ such foul magic... No, I dare not name him for this, before we have the truth." He grimaced. "If only the Arlessa would tell us the source of this madness."

"It was the mage, I told you," said Isolde, fingers shielding her face. "We must hurry and end him."

"Yes, Isolde, the mage you brought to Redcliffe, I'm afraid."

"Teeguh, you must understand, this is not my fault! I was only trying to help." She let out a dry sob.

Elissa was not impressed with the Orlesian's hysterics, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before addressing her. They were now in the highest level of the area referred to as the basement, and at any moment they might find a fight. "As distasteful as I find this question, Arlessa Isolde, I must know. Is this mage your lover?"

Isolde erupted, lips white with rage. "How dare you!" she shrieked. "Who are to even ask this! Who has been telling such lies!" Alistair stepped between them before Isolde could hurl herself at the other woman. Her fingers were outstretched like the claws of a cat. "Alistair, do not touch me!"

"Calm down," he snapped back. The heavy plate on his arm clanked against the wall. It was teeny bit gratifying to finally be able to give some of her own treatment back to her, even if he couldn't say the things he wanted to say to her face. As an afterthought, he tacked on a begrudging, "My lady."

"It is not an unreasonable assumption. Anyone could see that you are still a beautiful young woman. Your husband is old and sick," Lis coaxed, sympathetically. "I could understand."

"Slander! I would never. I love my husband!" She pulled away from them, crying noisily.

"We must learn for what purpose this mage was brought into Redcliffe. Not for healing my brother, obviously, or she would say so. At the very least, I have good reason to believe someone has been spying on Eamon," admitted Teagan, under his breath.

"What proof have you?" Elissa pressed, quiet but with intensity in her eyes. They meant to keep this conversation away from Isolde.

"A letter, taken off the body of a strange elf; it specifically instructs that the recipient 'watch the castle'. I have no way of proving its provenance, unfortunately. One of the men brought it to my attention this very afternoon."

Elissa sighed. "I wish you had come to me with this sooner, Teagan. If Leliana had the chance to investigate the body before they put it on the pyre, who knows what we might have learned."

"He did try, Lis," Alistair admitted, one side of his mouth quirked up in apology. "It's my fault. I sent the messenger away, while you were, em, resting." With a _clink,_ he removed one glove, to lay a bare hand on her shoulder. The white linen shirt was supple over her skin. "I completely forgot. Consider it an act of a concussed brain, and forgive me?"

Almost imperceptibly, Elissa leaned into his touch, mollified by the apology. "Of course."

The eyes of the bearded man flitted between them like a moth in a lamp, curious. Feeling the eyes on him, Alistair squeezed her shoulder. ' _She is mine,_ ' he thought, and surprised himself with the ferocity of the feeling.

In the next passage, the stone floor was cushioned with moldering hay, piled high in the deserted cells. The stench of rot was a sick-sweet perfume that seemed to pull the oxygen straight from one's lungs. "One stray flame and the whole dungeon would go up like a chantry bonfire in the summertime," Alistair remarked, adding, "Not that I'm suggesting it."

Elissa gave him a pained expression, pulling her yellow scarf over her mouth. "Holy fire, indeed."

"Only as a last resort," muttered Teagan.

Alistair's heart quickened as he turned around to them. "Uncle!" he sputtered. "You can't be serious."

"These are dark days, Alistair. Even the most dire choices must be weighed. If my brother and his son have succumbed to this sorcery..." Teagan swallowed. It was a thought he did not want to face, and yet, here they were.

Alistair persisted. "But the castle—"

"Is merely walls. Walls can always be rebuilt. Better to end the infection with cleansing fire, then let it fester in the heart." He glanced meaningfully to Elissa, who nodded. "Loghain said something strange to me, as we parted. That he was doing all this to preserve Ferelden's _independence_." He emphasized this last word. "I meant to ask Eamon what he could possibly mean, but as my brother is indisposed, I turn to your counsel, my lady."

"Very interesting," Lissa hummed speculatively, mulling over her reply. "I am sorry, Teagan. I could not say. I could ask—"

Before she could finish, an arm shot out from behind the iron bars and snagged her sleeve. "Please! Please don't leave me here!" implored an earnest voice. Lissa jumped back, wrenching her clothing away from the offending hand.

"You!" howled Isolde. "I should have had you killed."

The young man was tall, well built and dark haired. Handsome, if not for the splatters of dried blood soaking his purple robes. "Lady Isolde! Finally come to do it yourself? Or will you have me starve to death in this cell?"

"That ees too good for you. You will be ripped apart by dogs!" she snarled back, hands on her hips. "My archers will pick holes in your corpse."

"Careful, Lis," Alistair cautioned. He could feel the thrum of magic radiating from the stranger. It tasted of darkness. "This is the mage who did all this."

"You are the necromancer?" asked Elissa, surprised. "How have you done all this from behind prison bars?"

"Necromancer?" laughed the man. "Is that what she's telling people? I'm not the one raising the dead. Not me. I'm just a tutor!"

"Who are you?" Teagan said. "Isolde, explain this at once!"

"I am Jowan."

"He's an assassin! Teeguh, this man poisoned my husband."

Jowan sighed, raising his hands. "I admit it, I did poison the arl."

"You're an apostate." Alistair stepped between Elissa and the cage. Her lack of armor made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with alarm. "Stop moving your hands. Immediately."

"A templar," groaned the mage, for the first time showing fear. His fingers trembled with the effort of holding perfectly still.

"Former templar, but yes. I can feel it pouring off you in waves, you really reek of it. That, and you're not wearing Circle robes. Sort of gives it away."

"Alistair, could you, maybe..." Teagan began.

He folded his arms, cross. "I don't carry the Rite of Tranquility around in my pocket, if that's what you're going to ask."

"But you could neutralize him, couldn't you?" interjected Elissa gently. "Make it safer for us? So he can't cast anything?"

He winced. "Oh! Well, yeah, I can. But only for a short range. If I walk too far away..."

"Please," she requested, waving her hand. With only her eyes she said, _I know you don't want to, but do it anyway, for me._

"No! This really isn't necessary," whimpered the mage. "I won't do anything."

Alistair closed his eyes, turning inward until he found a place inside himself where power coiled. He'd never needed lyrium to do this, to tap into his own supply of mana, but he hadn't been able to focus it and give it purpose until the templars had given him that guidance. Rather like a fledgling mage, in that respect, but too weak to connect fully with the Fade and cast spells. His abilities, instead, dampened the magic of others. He was out of practice, and had forgotten the way it made him feel. He pushed the coil outward, envisioning a blue smoke, suddenly queasy and cold as it coated the space around him, choking out Jowan's magic like a blanket smothering a flame. Doing so made them both numb and out of sorts, cut off from their natural rhythm. No wonder so many templars abused lyrium and alcohol. It helped them feel normal again, even if the benchmark to 'normal' moved farther and farther away each time.

"Maker's breath," he finally exhaled, turned pale.

Elissa ran her fingers over his face, studying him. "Are you well?"

"Yes," he assured her, but he was not entirely sure of that himself. "Later, we'll talk about it later."

"If that is what you wish," she agreed. "Now ser mage, Jowan, was it?"

"I... I know it looks suspicious, but I'm not responsible for the creatures and the killings in the castle. I was already imprisoned when that all began," shivered Jowan. "I told you, Lady Isolde, I never summoned a demon to torment your family."

"Liar," scoffed Isolde. "If not you, then who?"

"I fear you know who, my lady. Even when you had me tortured, I have always said the same: my young pupil, Connor."

A shiver went down Alistair's spine as the pieces clicked into place. Still, he could barely believe it. "Connor? The arl's son?"

"Connor is a mage?" breathed Teagan. "Is that the madness of which you spoke?"

"No, I... He began to show... signs..." said Isolde mournfully. "I could not bear to be apart from him, still. My little boy. Eamon would have him sent to the Circle of Magi, if he knew. So I wrote to a trusted friend. Soon, this one showed up at my door. He knew about Connor, he was a mage, he said he could help control it."

"I did want to help! I just..."

"But you sent all your templars away, Lady Isolde." Elissa's eyes narrowed.

"To find the Urn of Sacred Ashes! To cure my husband!"

"No, I rather think you did it so that Connor could study his magic. Anyone like Alistair could sense the boy's... gift."

"Alistair again, of course. He has been nothing but trouble for me since his birth," Isolde sneered. "Why are you even here? You are not welcome in Redcliffe, bastard."

"Ooph, sticks and stones, Lady Isolde." Alistair grinned, but it still smarted. "You never can resist reminding me of that."

"Enough," scolded Teagan. "The both of you. Jowan, explain yourself. For what purpose did you harm the arl?"

"I was hired for— I was instructed to by Teryn Loghain," he admitted, mouth turning down at the corners. "I was told that Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden, that if I dealt with him Loghain would settle matters with the Circle. We had a... misunderstanding, you see. My beloved, Lily, still lives within Kinloch Hold. I only wish to return to her." Isolde stiffened at the word 'beloved', then her shoulders sagged.

"That sorts out the matter of your mysterious spy, Teagan," Elissa whispered grimly. "Arl Eamon suffers by order of—"

"Loghain," finished Teagan. "His machinations for the throne become transparent."

"Can we really be surprised, at this point?" said Alistair. "Everywhere I turn I see Loghain, Loghain, Loghain. Going to be seeing him in my dreams."

"We've been outplayed before we even entered the Game. Urien Kendells, my father, and now Eamon Guerrin. All of the Advisers to the Crown, the most respected men in Fereldan, dead or indisposed."

"Except for Loghain Mac Tir."

"Except for Loghain," she echoed in agreement. "And Howe appointed the Arl of Denerim, with Urien dead, as a reward for his loyal service." Her mouth curled with disgust.

"I didn't know," whined Jowan, eyes wide. "How could I have known! I was helping the teryn protect the kingdom."

"Shut up," barked Isolde. "You shall be executed for your crime. Connor is barely himself anymore and it is your fault!"

"I find myself agreeing with the arlessa," sighed Teagan. "Normally, there would be a trial, but there is no time. Kill the mage." He turned to his sister-in-law. "Isolde, take me to Connor. I must see what can be done."

"Is it wise to go on without Alistair?" asked Elissa, the unspoken _and me_ hanging in the air.

With a sad smile, Teagan turned back. Taking her by the hand, he placed a lingering kiss on her palm. "My Lady Cousland," he began, certain, "Connor will not harm me. It will be but a moment, apart." Then he left them.

The seething heat in Alistair's chest threatened to choke him. For a moment, anger turned his vision to red. ' _See_ ,' crowed jealous thoughts, _'SEE! Red-headed babies, just like she wants. She didn't pull away, she wanted him to kiss her.'_ He tried to reason with himself, ' _It was just on the hand. Hardly meant anything, yeah? Didn't really mean anything when he said it was a crime that a lovely woman like herself wasn't married. Yeah...?'_ If she would only look at him, give him a smile, reach out and touch him again, he could forget that Teagan—

"No, please! Have mercy, my lady. I know my crime was severe, but I can help. If Connor is in the thrall of a demon, I know of a ritual that could help him. He can still be saved. I could make everything right again."

"Not without several enchanters and a lot of lyrium," countered Alistair. "Even then, only maybe."

"You templars think everyone is an abomination!"

"You're bluffing to buy time."

"Wouldn't you?" Elissa raised an eyebrow, challenging him. "Jowan, I'm not so biased as my friend, and I haven't the stomach to be a cold blooded executioner. What sort of spell could be done?"

Jowan hesitated, glancing at the man who nullified his magic. "Blood magic, my lady. A sacrifice would do it. Enough power to close whatever tear in the Veil he has opened."

Alistair gawped at the audacity of the man. His vision tunneled to pinpoints as the surge of anger shockwaved through him, shattering his concentration and damaging his hold over his powers. "No, not a chance!" If he lost control, the maleficar would only need to wound himself to slaughter them both.

"Alistair," she tried, sensing his anger but not the depth of it.

"No. One hundred percent, not happening."

"You know that if Duncan were here, he'd hear the man out."

"You just don't get it, do you? You really cannot comprehend the danger you'd be putting us in. Maker, Lissa, I cannot stand by and let a blood mage sweet talk you into doing this!" Scarcely realizing that he had decided to do it before he'd begun, his sword was in his hands. It slid through the bars, piercing through the mage with a soft, wet crunch.

"Sweet Andraste, Alistair, what are you doing?" she gasped, recoiling even as the thick spray of blood drenched her, soaking her linen shirt in crimson. She rubbed her cheeks, and pink smeared across her face. "What have you done?!"


	16. Mercy

Another whip of blood sprayed her in the side of the face as Alistair reclaimed his sword. It wrenched free from the chest of the young maleficar with a sickening _pop_. It was a long cut, through and through, and had split him from lungs to small bowel. Jowan fell forward, sliding against the iron bars; when he hit the floor, bloody foam poured from his mouth.

Elissa swung around, wild eyed, searching for the key to the cell. The hook at the end of the block was bare. Where was the key ring? Just as likely in the pocket of an undead guardsman as it was to be in Lady Isolde's possession. "What can I...?" she said to herself.

A torch, hanging in the sconce behind them, sputtered and threatened to extinguish, fanned by her sudden movement. Shadows cast larger than life across the back of Jowan's cell, looming and twisted by the unsteady flame, juddering as though independent of their source's footsteps.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her draw her dagger, and for a wild moment he imagined she might turn it on him. He flinched back, putting distance between them, but if she noticed this, she did not answer to it. Rather, she jammed the blade into the mechanism of the lock. With a violent twist, it gave way, allowing her to push the heavy door inward. The body was caught and dragged by the bottom of the gate, drawing a bloody crescent moon across the stone floor. She dropped to her knees. Her scarf tore loose in the process, and an aromatic sachet fell down between her breasts, suspended pendulous by a leather thong.

One look into those vacant eyes told her there was no point in staunching the flow of blood, the tiny spasms fluttering across his frame indicative of his death throes. Her lips worked silently, mouthing curses, as her fingers began fumbling through layers of enchanted fabric. Rotting hay soaked up the spreading puddle, but did not entirely spare the knees of her trousers.

"What are you looking for?" Alistair asked; his voice cracked.

"A pocket, a hidden purse, a... damn it!" she hissed. "Proof. There must be some shred of proof that Teryn Loghain hired him." She clasped her sticky red hands to her throat, wide eyed and breathing shallow. "No gold was exchanged... he would do something like this face to face, expecting that his assassin would be—" Suddenly, Lissa glared up at him, a look that would have felled a lesser man. " _Thank you_ for dispatching our only witness. Loghain could not have planned it better himself!"

Alistair's mouth twisted as she pressed the eyelids of the dead man closed. She left behind one, two bloody fingerprints. "Well, maybe so. Would be clever of him. Maybe the teryn devised the whole plot as an exercise in dramatic irony."

She took Jowan's left hand into her lap. "Did I or did I not just use the phrase _in cold blood_?" The nail beds were stained with ink. He wore a few cheap trinkets on his fingers, costume jewelry really, with ruby-glass for stones. Not worth more than a few coppers in total, not even enchanted, and not worth the effort to remove from his person when he was imprisoned by the arlessa. She twisted them one by one. The first and second only revealed that the poor quality metal had turned his knuckles green. The third she lingered over, cocking her head, and at last with great difficulty she stripped it from its place on the little finger. "You knew how I felt and yet you slaughtered him!" she denounced as she waved her fist over the gristly scene.

"He's a murderer. Or at least, an attempted murderer. Bann Teagan ordered his execution," he justified. Her accusation galled him, filling his head with a swirl of guilt and self-righteousness. "Just because you have one apostate for a friend, does not mean that the rest aren't still _dangerous_." He sheathed his sword, and followed her into the cell. "I don't know if you were having the same conversation that the rest of us were, but Elissa, for your own sake, get out of your ivory tower. Please. People would laugh if you tried to to pass the word of a blood mage off in the Landsmeet." He offered her his hand up.

"He wanted to help." She pointedly ignored his assistance, preferring to stand under her own power, and grasping an iron bar to do just that. "We could have least have listened to his plan; he was an unarmed man in a cage."

"He was a cornered snake!" Alistair inhaled, thinking of how close he had been to losing control of his abilities. One slip in his concentration, and _POW_ , Lissa-shaped splatter on the wall. "How quickly you forget that it was you who wanted me to suppress him. You and Teagan."

"That is beside the point!"

"Would you have freed him? Become complicit in the Forbidden Arts? I hear the Aeonar is lovely this time of year. Do you know what they do to the prisoners there?"

"Do you?"

He nodded, a distressed look upon his face. "I do. Well, some of it. But what I know isn't pretty." The prison was kept on ground where the Veil had been made thin, worn away by the experiments of ancient Tevinter. A person thought to be under the bond of a maleficar would have to pass through the Gauntlet of Aeonar, a trial-by-fire designed to sniff out demonic possession or mind control. While normally it was only mages whose talents made them attractive to the malicious beings of the Fade, a blood mage had the power to summon demons for the purpose of enthralling non-magi. Only the most dogmatic of templars served the Aeonar, and only they were privy to the secret rites. In the monastery, the older initiates told gruesome tales, of templars made incorruptible, mindless and obedient to Lord Seeker Lambert, as though they were Tranquil. It was the precariousness of it all that made Alistair's mouth dry, for while under Chantry law a known maleficar could be executed, a suspected one had to be _proven—_ the method by which was torture.

"We won't be put in the mage's prison," Elissa said, with certainty.

Her flippancy rankled him. "You don't have to actually be a mage to—"

"They won't bother, Alistair! If you and I are caught, there will never be a trial. Loghain cannot afford to let us speak in public on our own behalf, not with so many nobles sympathetic to our cause. It will be straight to the nearest hanging tree, an incident of mob justice for our capital crime. No more mercy than you showed him." She gestured downward, studying the new damage on her dagger. In using it as a crude lockpick, she had warped the first third of the blade. It would need repairing.

He could not refute her logic, though he did not agree with her methods. They walked side by side. "You know," he sighed, "I did it to protect you."

"Protect me?" she sputtered. "Is this Alistair the Templar speaking again?"

 _'You asked me to be him again! I never wanted to be a_ _templar_ ,' he though, disgusted, ' _and she knows that_.' "Yes, protect you. Maybe you saw 'an unarmed man in a cage'. But a mage is never really disarmed."

"What, shall it be a lesson on magic now?" she goaded, sliding the dagger back into its leather sheath.

 _'Maker's breath, I forgot how annoying she can be.'_ Irritation won out. Quickly, he grasped her shoulders, wishing to turn her to face him. He miscalculated, briefly overbalancing from the weight of his armor, and they both tumbled into the wall. Seizing the moment, he ordered, "Just listen for a minute!" Words rose and died on her flushed lips. He fancied he could hear her heart thumping like a rabbit.

Her eyes swept up and down, first in surprise, and then with something darker that he could not put a name to. She murmured, voice turned husky,"You have my attention." With each breath, her pulse flashed in her throat. He quashed the urge to drag his lips there, only just managing because she was filthy with the dead man's blood. That he even considered it made him ill. ' _I can't stop thinking about doing it again. Maker's breath, even when she's like this._ '

With his right hand, the one missing its gauntlet, he swiped a streak across her stained cheek. "This much," he demonstrated, holding up the bloody fingertip where she could see it. "That's all a blood mage needs. Just a drop of flowing blood, a tiny cut to draw life essence from. He could have gouged himself on a bar." His nails raked down her shoulder, caressing her where he could feel feverish flesh under thin cloth, and her eyelids fluttered at the sensation. Inspired by the texture of a bandage, he squeezed her injured arm. She grimaced in protest. "One drop and he could have used it to pull the blood from your open wounds," he emphasized. "Dead before we knew what was happening. And that's if he was feeling _merciful_." Alistair sneered at this last word. "Or worse. He could have climbed inside your head, wrenched control of your thoughts, and had you do the killing for him."

She sucked in breath. On the edge of her temple there was a faint glitter of sweat; the sweet smell of elfroot was on her breath with every exhale. A balm of mint and lavender lingered from the pouch around her neck.

He released her wound before he caused her harm, studying the shape of her mouth, the splotches of color on her cheeks under all the gore. "I will never regret keeping you safe."

"Get away from me," she whispered back. Her eyes glittered like a cat in the dark

"Elissa, be reasonable," said Alistair, stung. He regretted it immediately. "I mean..." His tongue failed him, and he did not know how he meant to carry on.

"You have lost the right," she warned, with the overly polite, crisp accent of a northern highborn lady slipping back into her syllables. The sort of tone she used with common bandits right before she let fly her arrow. "Get your hands off of me."

The danger in her voice made his blood run cold. "Lissa?" he still pressed, in disbelief. A hot lump of pain took root in his chest, making it impossible to swallow. He felt strange, disoriented, still searching for the words that would set things right. How could she not be swayed by the honesty of his intentions? Surely, the death of one fucking blood mage was not worth this.

She dislodged him, growling, "No." Elissa sidestepped along the wall, until she was just out of arms reach. It might as well have been a hundred miles. She brushed away unshed tears with the palm of her hand, face warping positively feral with the effort to contain herself. "I understand precisely your reasoning, Alistair. I also know you've lost us critical information that I will never have back. Such as: How did Loghain get in contact with Jowan? Which of your Order might be an enemy to us?"

"My order—" he argued. "The templars are not my order!"

"How was the poison slipped to the arl?" she continued, ignoring him. "How long has this plot been in the making? Just off the top of my head! He was infinitely more useful to me alive than dead. Maker take you," she swore. "How can I trust you with my hea—" Elissa raggedly caught herself. "How can I trust you?" she repeated.

"Implicitly!" shouted Alistair, barely resisting the urge to punch the stone wall. The flash of agony in his heart bloomed into white-hot pain. "With your life! Trust me enough to believe that I know more about this one thing than you do, and when I say we were in danger, believe me!"

"That information was more valuable than my safety," she huffed, hands in fists.

"Maker's breath. How can you even say that?" he questioned, alarmed by this exclamation. He closed the gap between them again, propelled even as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. "Nothing is more precious," sputtered Alistair, feeling a blush flame his cheeks. "I mean, what could I do if you died?"

With a glint in her green orbs, she thrust out her fist into his hand. The brush of her hand was electric, like a lick of magic conjuring up a storm. "Tell me what this is," she demanded. In her palm was the mage's bauble.

"It's a ring," he answered, caught off guard.

Elissa sighed, "Obviously." Feeling as though he had failed some sort of test, he watched as she indicated with her thumbnail how the jewel and the body of the ring could be separated by opening a tiny clasp. It folded outward, like a locket, to reveal a hidden compartment. "See?"

He shed his other gauntlet to take it from her, letting the glove fall to the floor with a metallic _thump_. "What is it?" he asked in wonder. Up close the ring was much as he had thought, gaudy and fat, not dissimilar to the other ones Jowan wore, though he had only observed at a distance. The gold plating had not tarnished, so it was either new or rarely worn. Inside the round recess was a trace of white powder. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"It's a poisoner's ring," Elissa explained. "Antivan made, if I'm not mistaken— please, keep it away from your face, inhaling will have rather the same effect as ingesting, if not faster." Alistair hastily lowered it and itched his nose. "I saw one once in Highever; my sister-in-law kept one as a novelty. I take it they were fashionable."

"Poison? What kind?"

With a shake of her head, she admitted her uncertainty. "We would have to consult a Crow." She folded her arms against her stomach, making herself smaller; her eyes were wreathed with shadow. "We can't very well ask Jowan, now can we?"

"You think he got it from an Antivan Crow," he said with a measure of disbelief, avoiding the stubborn accusation in her voice. The more she pressed the issue, the more he understood that the mage's death had hindered, perhaps sabotaged her own plans. The guilt gnawed at him, only tempered by his belief that allowing Jowan freedom would have been a fatal mistake. He could weather her anger in time. Her temper burned quick and hot but usually cooled after a good sleep.

Maker, they needed rest.

"Him, or the teryn himself. I said that poison was the nobility's favorite toy? It's not outside the realm of possibilities that Loghain would have contracted some outside help, though... I do have trouble reconciling it with his usual grandiose _modus operandi_ ," she murmured, borrowing a Tevene phrase. "Perhaps Howe has had a hand in this? He and my mother taught me to identify all of the Fereldan poisons and a few common Orlesian ones as well." This made Alistair wonder, not for the first time, just how intimately she knew their enemies, and in turn, how well they knew her. He resolved to question her in a more peaceful moment... if they were ever afforded the opportunity again. "This was much too subtle to be average Fereldan— the signs so slow that they manifested in Arl Eamon as sickness, rather than death. It's professional. Come," she concluded, "let us see to young Connor, before darkness falls."


	17. Castle

The sentries, mutilated guardsmen, still kept their patrols on the main floor of the vast, sprawling castle. From their bulging, blue eyeballs to the frozen grins on their shriveled lips, it was evident they had been dead now for several days. But the dead were not staying dead. The spirits which wore their flesh did not permit them to lay down their arms; dispatch one and in time another demon would fill those sagging shoes. Bone ground against bone, sinews ripped and flesh wept black blood until too many pieces sloughed free, and at last the skeletal form would collapse upon itself, no longer able to drag along the ground. Even then, Alistair knew, a persistent demon of hunger or sloth could gather the bones back together.

To be frank, it was a nightmarish mess. Someone or something had come into his home and desecrated it. Without fresh air flow, the funk of decay stung his eyes and nose. He stepped in a puddle of maggots with a horrific squelch, and barely contained the vomit which rose in his throat.

The main floor corridors of Redcliffe, like many castles of its age, were built as a labyrinth, full of choke points and tiny antechambers meant to stymie intruders; but to the man who had roamed them freely as a boy, the way was easily ascertained. The stone floors were covered by rolls of plush carpeting. They were a field of deep blue with gold trimming, a remnant of the days when Isolde's father, the tenth Orlesian governor of occupied Redcliffe, held court. Under normal circumstances, the servants would have beat the rugs clean once a week. Judging by the crust of filth underfoot, it had been perhaps a month since the chore had last been done. Thick ribbons of cobweb cluttered the corners, where plump and happy spiders feasted on corpse flies.

Whatever had come to Redcliffe had, Alistair speculated, affected daily life even before Eamon had fallen ill.

The interior walls were stone block to about head height, then plastered above. The plaster, he remembered, had to be regularly maintained by craftsmen who came all the way from the capital. (Most of the midtown Denerim construction was of the half-timbered style, as wattle and daub was quicker and cheaper than masonry, and could be managed with elves rather than dwarves. Though, it was a good deal more susceptible to fire.) Between the plastering and the numerous tapestries, the drafty castle could be kept tolerably warm. But still, there was an unnatural chill in the air, a disjointed feeling that he could not put words to. Different than the ticklish background purr of the magical wards, which were anchored by lyrium runes in the cornerstones. Perhaps this was what a tear in the Veil felt like, but having no practical experience in the matter, he ruminated that it was better to keep quiet than to speak and be made a fool.

In several hallways, silverite suits of armor, larger than qunari, accented the colonnades. Alistair gave them a wide berth, knowing that they were meant to be enchanted sentinels, though some had gone dormant long before his birth. It was bad enough to be fending off the corpses, which kept animating every time he turned his back, without adding angry statues into the mix.

Outnumbered three to one in any room, the pair traveled stealthily, resorting to guerrilla tactics of the rogue's making. Wordlessly, he would indicate the correct path, and with a flash of black powder she would become as like a shadow. He could feel her rather than see her, humming quietly with the trace of magic which made her invisible to the naked eye. Her aura was a deep violet in his mind's eye, acrid and smokey. He noticed that she only employed these powders in close quarters, where the naturally dim interiors afforded her extra camouflage. The effect evaporated if she moved too quickly, but she could dispatch two, sometimes three guards before they noticed her presence. A crooked dagger through the brain stem. A hacking sword to dismember, leaving what remained of the shells impotent.

Grim, and silent, they disposed of the twice-unlucky soldiers, who kept their watch without relief. It was becoming all too commonplace to him, and the shine was coming off his notions of honor, bravery, and Warden's work. This was the seasoning of a warrior, toiling until a warm fire or a soft bed became like distant dreams. Adrenaline made his heart thump fast and stomach ache with cold, and the signals of his exhausted body were ignored.

The first living soul they encountered was the arlessa's maid Valena, the daughter of Owen the Blacksmith. She had locked herself in a linen closet, and was frightened and hungry, but unhurt. They pieced out of her gibbering that Master Connor had kept a few personal servants alive: his mother's chambermaid, a favorite cook, the arl's valet, and a cadre of bodyguards. With a gentle hand, Alistair directed her to the nearest servant's passage, telling her that she must get back to her father before sundown.

Eamon's chamberlain was the second. Thus, it was startling when the distinguished figure turned against them with great prejudice, wreathed by a personal honor guard of skeletons. Elissa hesitated to kill him outright, instead parrying the clumsy blows of his knife with her basilard. "What's wrong with him?"

"Bewitched," he answered grimly, battering down the cluster of bonemen with his shield. They fell with a noise that reminded him of dwarven ninepins. "See the funny color of his eyes?"

"Rather glassy?"

"Yes, like that," he agreed, and felt a spark of admiration when she successfully disarmed the man with a flick of her wrist. It looked easy, but she made many difficult things look easy. The kitchen knife clattered away harmlessly, under a bed. Still the Chamberlain lunged for her, fingers outstretched, and she struck him with the pommel of her dagger. He went down like a sack of turnips.

"What shall we do with him?" Her voice was all business, but he caught her mouth quirking briefly into a wry smile. "Ach, I hope I didn't hit him too hard. He's not possessed?"

"The Order would say the difference is not, er, significant. The safest thing would be to... 'put him down', so to speak," he hedged. His brain suggested the phrase _mercy killing_ , but it was neither the time nor the place to be glib.

"And what do you say?" she asked, pocketing a ring of keys. "I'd like to know your opinion."

His face registered his surprise. "Wow. Um. I think," he said slowly, eyebrows drawn together, "That if we put an end to the spell, or whatever it is, holding this castle, he might return to normal. Maybe."

She nodded, and he exhaled in relief. "Sweep the skeletons out into the corridor," she said, "while I look for something to bind him with. A belt. We'll lock him up in his room away from the rest, so they don't start... chewing on him." As she passed by a mirror, she froze, caught by her reflection. "Maker's breath, is that really me?" Lissa gasped, raising a hand to touch her cheek. "I look ghastly!"

A good deal of her face was stained with the clay color of dried blood. The two hand prints on her throat reminded him vaguely of a Chasind warrior, painted for battle. Her cropped hair was frizzy and tangled, long overdue for a meeting with a comb. _But_ , he thought, _she's beautiful. And scary, like a dragon_. He chuckled, standing behind her so he could examine his own dirty face. "Hey, you didn't tell me either!"

"Could use a bath," she said ruefully, admiring the deep stone tub empty — at the edge of the room. Only after she moved away did he realize that this was the first time he had seen them together, as other people could see them. His hair, which he usually considered to be blond, looked rather more strawberry next to her auburn curls. There was several days worth of fuzzy beard growth, and his chin seemed sharper, more defined than he remembered. He'd always been something of a baby face, and he found it hard to reconcile the cheekbones he now wore.

It reminded him... Why did it surprise him that he was reminded of a portrait of a young King Maric? It should not, but it did. Where was his mother in this face?

Elissa gathered up the chamberlain's bowl and pitcher, and laid them in front of the glass. The water was clear, but had an oily skin on the surface. With a sniff, this proved to be a pungent men's cologne; no telling when it had been drawn. Though he was thirsty, he wasn't _that_ thirsty.

"Rainesfere has these marvelous Imperial baths," he waxed nostalgic. "The Orlesians got the plumbing working again." Alistair tightened the leather belt around a bedpost, fastening their prisoner to the heaviest piece of furniture in the room.

"Love a bath, the Orlesians," she said absently. Gingerly, she scrubbed at her face with a dampened cloth, trying to wet her skin but not her clothes. When she dipped it back in the basin, a bloom of red spread across the water.

"You should go," _with Teagan_ , "In the spring when the apple trees blossom," he finished, awkwardly editing out his uncle's name, and then wishing he hadn't said anything at all. Rainesfere was, after all, his uncle's home, and it was impossible to think of the idyllic little bannorn without also calling to mind her master. He pictured the gnarled trees, black of bark, robed in fragrant pink and white petals, and his tired mind drifted to the Wintersend festival. Last time he'd been, Alistair was but a lad in short pants — nibbling on chocolate pastries while watching the children's show in the old amphitheater; staying up to watch the blushing girls and liquor-brave boys announce their engagements at the dance; falling asleep in the back of a cart long before the evening drama. Everyone, even dignified Eamon and mischievous Teagan, wore crowns of daffodil, daisy and iris 'round their heads.

She looked at him thoughtfully, skin bare and pink, wondering about the cascade of emotions she saw behind his eyes. "Next year," she agreed, and smiled sadly. The unspoken _if_ lingered as a prayer between them. "Is it possible...?" she began to ask, and wavered, unsure.

"Is what possible?" he prompted.

"You told Jow- you told the mage that it could be done with lots of lyrium and enchanters. Helping Connor, I mean."

Alistair shifted. "Nobody has done it recently, that I know of. The Chantry doesn't usually bother, these days."

"Why not?"

"I guess even if you can break a possession, the mage is still quite vulnerable to future, er, re-possession." They both grimaced at the pun. "It's considered to be a kindness... I was only present during one Harrowing."

"Harrowing?"

"The ritual that they test the mages with. It's not unlike our Joining, really, and just as deadly." She nodded, sympathetic, and he briefly remembered how angry she'd been after her Joining. Bitter over her conscription, but furious over the murder of Ser Jory, the husband of one of her own subjects. "That was all I needed, too. I don't know how anyone could get through that. The girl they tested she had a demon put inside her, to see if she could resist. And she couldn't. We had to end it quickly." He felt stomach-sick at the memory. "I have to say I didn't have much interest in becoming a templar after that."

Elissa was stunned. "They... deliberately?" She drew a vague shape with her fingers, triangular, like that of a shade.

He bowed his head. "Yes."

"What a bunch of bastards!" she said, with great feeling.

Alistair laughed. "You said it."

* * *

The great hall in the center of the castle lived up to its name. Buttresses flew in a graceful arch to the ceiling, carved with swirls and menacing faces, an original Alamarri motif. Golden brocade drapery billowed down between stone pillars, tied back with silk cord. The dining table was set with what appeared to be a child's birthday feast: half-eaten cake, cookies, boiled puddings, and blackcurrant tarts. At the apex of the room was a staircase, which lead to a massive hearth, fire roaring magnificently. Flanking Eamon's throne stood enormous statues of snarling mabari, with gleaming rows of white teeth. The throne itself was the least impressive decoration in the room, little more than a glorified chair, but it drew and held their attention. For in the seat was a little boy, swinging his feet merrily. His shoes did not yet touch the ground.

He was a pretty child, perhaps prettier than a boy-child ought to be, with a round, wide face, large ears, and his mother's ginger hair all cowlicked and uncombed. His play clothes were dirtied with various food stains, as though no one dared to scold him. "He looks... normal," said Elissa.

"What did you expect, horns?"

"I don't know, perhaps... He couldn't be much older than my Oren."

_Oren._ The name she screamed in her sleep. The face she looked for in every young child. "Be careful," he whispered. "Something's wrong here." A motion in the corner of his eye made him turn; she followed his eye line. It was a bizarre sight— his uncle turning cheerful cartwheels up the aisle. His smile was vacuous, his eyes unfocused; with each successful revolution, he quietly giggled to himself. He passed by an arrow-slit window, paned with clear glass, which let in the amber light of the setting sun.

"Oh!" Elissa said, dismayed, "What have they done to Teagan!" She jerked forward to rush to his side, but this drew the attention of their young host.

"So theses are our visitors? The ones you told me about, Mother?" His voice was unnatural, deeper than it should have been, and somehow resonating inside Alistair's head, like a bell rung too close to his ears.

"Y-yes, Connor. Your cousin, Alistair, and his friend," Isolde answered him. The weight on her shoulders was so great that she could scarcely lift her head to look at them.

The child hopped down from his chair, pointing as they stepped into the glow of the fire. "And this is the one who defeated my soldiers? The ones I sent to reclaim my village?"

"Yes."

"And now it's staring at me! What is it, Mother? I can't see it well enough.'

"This... this is a _wo_ man, Connor. Just as I am..."

"You lie!" he snarled, little face balled up in hatred. "This woman is nothing at all like you! Why, just look at her! Half your age and pretty, too. I'm surprised you don't order her executed in a fit of jealousy!" Alistair winced inwardly, thinking that the insults were a little too on the nose for his liking. If the demon could read minds, they were in heaps of trouble.

While Connor and his mother argued, a sea-change came across the boy's face, and for a fraction of a second, it seemed that the real child had broken through. But this came and went, faster than Elissa could react. Alistair saw her itch, fingers opening and closing reflexively, and how her eyes flicked between Connor and Teagan. Would she kill the child to save his uncle? Would she really have a choice in the matter?

"You!" crowed Connor, head snapping stiffly to see her movement. "You reek of blood. My mage, you killed him!"

"Please don't hurt my son! He's not responsible for what he does!'

"The mage hurt your father," coaxed Elissa, pointedly ignoring Isolde.

"I know this," he growled. "My tutor tried to kill Father, but he failed. Foolish!"

"You killed him! Then you know! He did this to my family— he summoned the demon. Connor just wanted to help his father."

"You made a deal," Alistair realized, "For his life."

"Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it's my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!"

Teagan cackled loudly. "NOOOOOBODY TELLS HIM WHAT TO DO! NOOOOOBODY!"

"Quiet, uncle. I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting, didn't I? Yes, I did."

Elissa laid her hand on her hilt. "Connor, please," she said in a clipped tone, inadvertently letting nobility bleed into her voice. It was neither Isolde's whining nor Teagan's shouting, and it seemed to capture the boy's attention. "I have come to negotiate cessation of hostilities between your castle and your village."

"How civil! I wondered why it had come. Tell me, what do I call it? Cousin Alistair's friend?"

"They call me the Warden. You may call me that, or you may call me Lady Cousland. I am Alistair's cousin as well."

"Cousin-Cousin, Warden-Cousin, you do not look like a lady," he said scornfully. "Where is your dress?"

She shrugged, a lazy, languid motion, as though she was not thrumming with nerves. "I left it back in your village, my lord. Did you know that your soldiers have been killing your villagers? How it must hurt your father."

"Father is safe," he sneered back, but Alistair saw the flash of uncertainty there, like the Connor behind the demon was listening. "I think you're just trying to spoil things. What do you think, Mother? I think it's threatening me."

"No one is threatening anyone," Elissa interrupted Isolde's half-hearted babble. "But I must know why. Why hurt your people? Why hurt your uncle?"

"Because it is fun, Cousin-Cousin! Don't you know _fun_? I want to play with you! Mustn't spoil my games." He beckoned, "Uncle, come play."

Teagan stopped blowing raspberries and stiffened, walleyed, standing up to draw his sword. He seemed to be trying to fight the compulsion, eyes white and bulging from the effort, but failed to resist the command. "Lissa," Alistair warned, finding his voice came like a croak, as he went for his own weapon.

"No, please, don't hurt him," Isolde shrieked, and to their great surprise, the bloodthirsty child turned tail and ran from the room.

"I really—" Lis dodged an uncoordinated downward chop, "don't have the time—" and punched Teagan as hard as she could, "for this!" The older man went down hard. "Alistair, see to the boy!"

"Nooooo!" cried the arlessa, bodily blocking Alistair from the door.

"Stop it," he grunted, but now the guards were bearing down upon them both. "Don't make things worse for yourself."

"You do not understand. Connor, he... the violence scares him. It makes him break free, even temporarily. He will be hiding in his room."

"That would have been helpful to know sooner," said Elissa, doing her best to only wound the guards. She took a glancing blow to the left shoulder and cried out. Alistair barreled through with his shield, using his abilities to flatten the remaining two men.

"Is it bad?" he gasped, dropping his shield with a clatter. The griffon, blue wings outstretched, fell beside the heraldry of Redcliffe— a tower on the bluffs.

Her hand clamped tight against the slash, oozing blood between her fingers. "No," she said through clenched teeth, but her skin was the color of chalk. Her eyes were dark and shocky. He barely caught her as she swooned.

"Maker," he grunted, steadying her against his armor. "You are a terrible liar."

"I do okay," she smiled. She closed her eyes and for a second he though she had slipped unconscious. Her eyelashes were thick and dark against her bloodless cheeks. "Is Teagan...?" Alistair couldn't have given less of a damn about Teagan in that moment, but the man in question answered for her.

"I'm fine, my lady," Teagan assured her, rising woozily. The red fist mark on his jaw would be a terrific bruise come the morrow. "My mind... is my own again. But you? You're hurt!"

"Nothing a healing potion can't set right," she said, but still she did not open her eyes. Alistair scooped her completely into his arms, lifting her off her feet. She weighed little more than a sparrow.

"I have some, in my chambers," Isolde offered. "I was saving them for my husband, but under the circumstances...?"

"Go," barked Teagan, eyes hard. "Quickly, woman."

"The arl's study," murmured Lissa softly, strength leaving her. "I must see it."

"Of course, my lady," Teagan readily agreed. "Anything you need. Alistair, can you manage carrying her all the way?" He touched his face, and hissed in pain.

' _All the way to Denerim,_ ' he thought, counting her breaths.


	18. Absolution

Teagan, Elissa, Alistair, and Isolde retreated to a tower at the end of long hall. Behind a locked door was a small, comfortably furnished room, near enough to the servant's staircase that they could be summoned to the second level at a moment's notice. The arl's _sanctum sanctorum_ was a round space lined with expensive bookshelves. Unlike the library, which was in a public part of the castle, this study was the private domain of the Lord of Redcliffe. Just as Isolde had her morning room and drawing room to entertain her private guests, only her husband had access to his study. Well, Eamon and his chamberlain. As steward of the castle, Chamberlain Hayes had a key to every door. And fortunately for her purposes, Elissa had the foresight to retain Hayes' keyring.

The study was just beginning to be stale and dusty, the sort of thing that happened when a room was locked away for a period of weeks. On the exterior of the thick wood door were bloody scratches, where some fear-maddened soul had failed to gain entry. Alistair, carrying a lit torch from the brazier outside, entered first. The familiar smells of long lost childhood lingered in the air here, filling his head with a swirl of memories in each breath. Cherry pipe tobacco, sooty and stale-sweet; a whiff of black ink on the blotter; leather books with words burned into the covers by glowing-hot brand; yellow tallow candles burned to stubs, wasted in long nights straining over fine print... Alistair took it all in and pictured his uncle as he knew him ten years before: dark haired with a full, bushy beard, strong shoulders, and kind eyes.

Eamon Guerrin was a popular man, even after his unconventional marriage. Known for his patience and practicality, he mediated the disputes of the banns and freeholders in his territory with a notoriously fair hand. He was the kind of man who understood it was a privilege and an obligation to be a ruler, not a luxury. Because of these traits, Alistair had thought to come to him first for aid, before they tried enforcing the old Warden treaties. It was no secret that while Redcliffe technically fell under Gwaren's purview, Eamon had never been afraid to challenge Teyrn Loghain.

Now more than ever, Alistair felt loyalty to the man who raised him. This, however, did not mean he always agreed with him. If Eamon had a flaw, it was his pride— he passionately believed that it was by the Maker's providence that his family stewarded Redcliffe. Like many royalist families, the Guerrins were raised to espouse a belief that Calenhad's blood granted divine right to rule Ferelden. It benefited their houses to emphasize this belief- after all, the Couslands were hardly the only noble family with the blood of kings, just perhaps the most obvious. Once, a much younger Alistair overheard his uncle disparaging Mac Tir's common birth, and never really recovered from that blow.

It was an ironic blessing that Eamon slumbered in the grips of his illness, oblivious to the destruction of his home and the corruption of his heir.

These books were the references Eamon kept close to hand. Some were used on a daily basis; others were too rare and expensive to be scuffed by peasant hands. Most titles on the spines enumerated Fereldan heraldry, noble lineage, codices of the Landsmeet, and the like. Open on the broad ebony desk was at first glance a volume on modern genealogy, printed some years before but well-penned with annotations and amendments. In his tiny, precise handwriting, Eamon had most recently recorded the deaths of Landra and Dairren, the wife and son of a minor lord Alistair vaguely recognized as the cousin of Alfstanna Eremon. The notation here illustrated that Alfstanna and Loren, of Waking Sea and Oswin respectively, were both vassals of

_Bryce William Cousland b. 8:82 South Reach; d. 9:30 Highever Towne_

_Eleanor Margrette Mac Eanraig b. 8:84, Storm Coast; d. 9:30, Highever Towne_

_Fergus Fearchar Cousland b. 9:03, Denerim; d. 9:30, Battle of Ostagar_

_Muir Bryce Cousland b. 9:04, Highever Towne; d. 9:04 Highever Towne_

_Elissa Elethea Cousland b. 9:07, Highever Towne; d. 9:30, Highever Towne_

Alistair started, jostled out of his reverie by the names on that tree. With a casual motion, he turned the page, before Lissa could see it. On the blank reverse side was another entry, composed entirely in the arl's hand:

 _Lachlan, son of Lady Eliane Bryland, alleged son of Lord Bryce Cousland (out of wedlock), born 8:99 Blessed in South Reach. Fostered in the home of Leonas Bryland, under the care of Ser Anthony Gilmore. Currently styled as Ser Lachlan Gilmore, knight in the family guard at Cousland's castle. To watch— Cousland keeps his bastard close to hand. Eleanor preventing formal re-inheritance to protect interests of her legitimate son? If acknowledged, Gilmore third to throne. Cailan_ _must_ _have an heir!_

' _I know that name,'_ he thought, flipping the page once more, now to a more innocuous family tree. ' _I know all those names, actually_. _Eliane Bryland— oh! Her married name was Howe!'_ He remembered the woman from Lissa's stories of Amarantine. Lissa described her as being well educated, a competent physic, but cold-hearted and distant to her children. None of Howe's three children had met their Uncle Leonas, with whom she had had a falling out. If Eamon's information was correct, then the Howes and the Couslands shared a brother. Lachlan, called "Gilly". ' _No wonder she feels so strongly about bastards.'_

Alistair felt a little sea-sick, recalling Elissa dead on the page, and was sorely tempted to flip back and confirm his eyes weren't playing tricks.

The lady in question was much distracted by the pain of her wound, worrying the glass flask in her hands. "Drink it down," Alistair chided softly as he bound up her shoulder with a velveteen book-sleeve. It felt like sacrilege, but at least it was only from a rather alarming illustrated manual on mabari breeding. "The whole thing, Lis. You need it."

"What I _need_ is a steak and kidney pie," she retorted, corking the little flask after only two sips. She shuddered at the taste, soured with age. "Or a blood restorative potion. Other people may need this worse than I." He could feel the magic wash over her in white-hot sparks, knitting flesh and wiping away bruises, the sweet tingle of natural magic. The bleeding stopped, but the cut did not fully close, and would probably scar in days to come. He finished wrapping it with a frown.

"Are you feeling anemic?" Alistair worried, trying to estimate how much blood she had lost recently.

"A little. I'm not in the habit of fainting." She slouched in her seat, scowling at her own perceived weakness. "Give me a few minutes to rest, and I will be well again."

"You need more than that," he countered. "Drink the whole thing, or it won't be effective. Do you want blood poisoning?" He moved to brush the hair from her face, and caught himself, suddenly aware of Isolde's hovering. How to be rid of her?

As though she had read his mind, Elissa spoke out. "Arlessa Isolde, do you think you can keep watch for us, upstairs, where the view is clear? If the attack begins on the village anew, we will know that your son's demon has the better of him." Grimly, she uncorked the flask and finished her potion. She made the most dreadful faces behind the cover of her hand, aimed so that Alistair could see. He swallowed a laugh.

"As you say, Warden," agreed Isolde, rushing to the assigned task with a frightening urgency. "Please, find a way to save my Connor."

"My lady, I wish you would do as Alistair says, and look to your own health," implored a very somber Teagan. "I fear that your first visit to our home has left you rather the worse for it. I wish it had been in better circumstances, a different time..."

He was seated upon a bench, his eyelids purpled and heavy from his vigil. Open in his hands was the control tome of the silver sentinels, the moving suits of armor which had so terrorized Alistair's childhood daydreams. It had been discovered on the shelf dedicated to the arcane rituals of their ancestors. Castle Redcliffe's collection of forbidden tomes was a better kept secret; all of Eamon's power and influence would not protect him if the Seekers came knocking. Once, before he could read, Teagan had sat little Alistair upon his lap, and together they examined the illuminations in a beautiful manuscript: _The Fall of Arlathan_. This one was old— written in an old Clayne dialect of trade tongue, which made it a challenge to parse. If Teagan could reactivate the decommissioned Guardians, the castle might be able to protect itself. They were hardly the mythic golems of Orzammar, but they were said to be tireless.

"I'm not a shrinking violet, Bann Teagan," she rebuffed gently. "Besides, you look as bad as I feel."

"Of course, as you say, dear lady." He held up his hands to placate her, and she forgave him with a tilted head and a smile.

Despite her sharp tongue, Alistair could see that she was in unexpectedly good spirits. Teagan had offered her full access to Eamon's correspondence, an unprecedented allowance. Eamon's beard would have curled in horror at the invasion, but his brother was fast becoming infatuated with the young teryna. She who had done so much to save his people. Their flirting was bordering on the nauseating, Alistair thought, all dramatic _if onlys_ , and _Maker's breath_ he actually wished Morrigan was there with him. The witch was never afraid to throw in a cutting jab, caring little for rank and status. Alistair, on the other hand, could hardly make a scene in front of his almost-uncle, especially to stake a claim in someone he no longer... He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Have you had any luck with your book?" Elissa asked Teagan. In her left hand was a letter from Bann Loren, the broken seal once bearing the crest of Oswin. Very gently, and without looking down to draw attention, she was picking a locked drawer with the tip of a letter opener. Her right wrist wiggled deftly from the effort, the fragile bones poking up pale under her skin. Lissa was propped in the overstuffed chair behind Eamon's desk. The wingback chair was green velvet, lovely and soft and matching her eyes.

"I think I am prepared to try the ritual," confirmed the other man, scratching his beard absently. "It is not dissimilar to what I did on the gates. Which means," he said as he made eye contact with the former templar, "a blood sacrifice."

To his credit, Alistair did not flinch. Blood magic, blood mages, blood lines... it prickled the hairs on the back of his neck and set his teeth on edge. For good reason, the Chantry had outlawed this form of magic, except for the creation of phylacteries. If the revered mothers only knew what went on in the old houses! At least this was mostly passive, defensive magic. He frowned as he recalled the night of his Joining, when Duncan bid him to drink deep of darkspawn blood and Maker-knows-whatever-else was in that chalice. How his heart skipped a beat as he held the cup to his lips. Was it possible to do good through evil methods? Or was the Calling a deserved punishment for the devil's deal they accepted in covenant?

"If it's not too much, I'd be willing to donate," Elissa said.

"No!" said Alistair, so low it was nearly inaudible.

"No, my lady," said Teagan, just as quickly. Her eyebrow raised just a fraction, and she looked back and forth between them. For a long moment they were silent, the tension in the room so thick one could cut it with a knife, and even Teagan, oblivious to the cause, could feel it. It was all Alistair could do to contain himself.

Alistair had almost forgotten the Thing that had happened in the dungeon, hesitating to put a word to it. _Execution? Murder? Mercy?_ They all rang false, twisting up his stomach with a cold knot of guilt. He wanted very much to forget about the Thing but the blood was still upon his hands. _Jowan's death_ sounded better, detached and neutral, something he could pretend had happened to someone else, rather than done by his own blade. The rational part of himself knew it had to be done, if not by him, then by her, and gladly he would shoulder that burden for her. But that she ever looked at him with such... When he replayed it in his mind, he saw her pupils dilate in fear, her arms lifting to shield herself from the spray of arterial blood. If the trust between them was broken, he could not bear it. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

It had only been a few short weeks since they met, only a few long days since he took her in his arms like a man would his wife. Sex had changed the game between them, made it impossible to go back to the way it was before. Some men could love and lust and then sweep it all away like dirt off their boots, but not he. All these things passed through his mind in a moment, but Alistair was only scarcely aware of them, drips of shadow-thought like the seconds before sleep. He could never tell her. She would not understand, or worse, she would laugh. Perhaps she'd already had her great love, with Nate Howe, and could never love like that again.

Someday would she come to him, gentle and cold, and tell him she could not love a man she could not trust? Stupid, besotted Teagan would make an adequate match. Guerrin had lands, he had titles, he had Rainesfere's apple orchards and— with Connor a mage, disinherited, he would have Redcliffe, too. Well, what remained of smoldering Redcliffe. The whole of the Hinterlands and the Highlands between them, and if her ambitions were true, the crown as well. If she could win her civil war, she would do her ancestor Calenhad proud. A Guerrin-Cousland alliance would be a stronger claim than Cailan's childless widow.

Of course, Alistair was standing in the way of the last. How easy would it be for her to be rid of him? Feeling his thoughts turn very dark, he shook his head to clear them.

"It must be me," Teagan was explaining, "and no other. The Guardians will only answer to Guerrin blood."

"Your signet ring," she realized, twisting it from her thumb. "We used it to open the passageway from the mill. You'll need this back."

"Would that you could keep it," he replied, eyes soft as he accepted her offering. "As a token of our adventure."

She smiled thinly. "Another time, my lord."

"Whatever you decide, Lady Cousland," said Teagan gravely, "we will honor it. But I confess I hope you find a way to save Connor. You have done many impossible things already."

"I think we must pay a visit to your neighbors across the lake," she sighed. "To see why they will not answer my missives."

"It's quickest by boat, only a day's journey," he said thoughtfully. "Someone in the village can take you. I must get the constructs working. If nothing else, the threat of violence should keep Connor's companion in heel. Isolde and I will do all we can to buy you some time."

* * *

With the locked drawer pried open, Eamon's secrets spilled across the desk. Alistair would have thought her dozing if not for the way her lips moved as she read. Page after page was scrawled on fine cream paper, embossed with the seal of the Theirin family; that is to say two wolf-dogs, with the long, curly tails of lions. "Are those from Cailan?" he bent and whispered in her ear. He almost hated to break the blissful silence, the peace of the candlelight.

"Mmhm," she confirmed, twisting the page slightly so that he could read over her shoulder. Spidery handwriting, forward slanted, with so much pressure that the nub had broken on the page, spilling ink across the margins. "They were arguing." She lifted a finger behind her and gently traced a line along Alistair's jawbone. Subtle enough to be accidental, but he felt a flush of warmth in the gesture. It was nearly enough to banish away the shadows in his head.

"What about? I can't imagine. They were so close." He admired for a moment the miniature portrait sitting beside inkwell. Painstakingly painted by a master's hand, he knew the brown haired woman with the full lips and striking gray eyes as Rowan, Cailan's mother and Eamon's beloved sister. If there had been a competition for Eamon's love, Cailan would have won it before Alistair heard the starting bell.

"The whole picture is not clear to me yet," said Elissa softly, so quiet he had to strain to catch her words. "They disagreed on how to handle the Blight."

"Unsurprising." He considered his half-brother, so delighted to ride with the Wardens that his camp was positively infected with the spirit, and wished they had been allowed to meet. It would have been enough to see his face for himself. Somewhere in that book said _Cailan Calenhad Maric Theirin, dead 9:30 Dragon_ ; he wondered if his own name was below it, if he was living or dead in the official record. Did Eamon allow him his father's name? If Bryce's bastard had a place, surely Maric's did, too. It came to him that his mother's name must be in a book, somewhere, in this room. Which ledger kept the name of dead servants? Twenty years gone, perhaps it was too much to hope, but Eamon was meticulous.

Elissa's soft laugh caught his attention again. "Hmm." She glanced over to Teagan meaningfully, then back down to a new letter, written on gold paper. He'd never seen such expensive paper before. "Sweet Andraste." She quickly turned the page over, and back, as in disbelief.

"What is it?" he whispered, seized by curiosity. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, and goosebumps rippled down her neck.

"Don't distract me," she murmured, eyes bright with mischief. "Your brother was very candid in his correspondence. How scandalous. The arl should have burned these. Leaving them out in the open, tsk tsk. Why, anyone could come along and... I do wish I had the other half of the coin, to see what Eamon was saying to him."

"What is it?" he pressed, worrying her ear with his mouth. He liked how the pink spilled across her cheeks.

"Don't," she giggled.

"Tell me or I'll find a way to embarrass you in front of Teagan."

His hand crept down her side, lightly brushing her breast before settling on her ribs. She squirmed, ticklish, and crinkled her brow. "Why should I care what Teagan thinks about you and I?" she asked. The confusion almost sounded genuine.

"Don't you...?"

"Don't I what?"

"You know," he hinted.

"Actually, I'm completely in the dark on this one. Is it because... he's your uncle?"

"Maker's breath, you make me feel stupid, just coming out like this..." He inhaled, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. "You're attracted to him."

She whipped around, sitting on her knees, with her chin on the top of the chair. "Is that an accusation?" Her expression was quizzical, and her eyes roved over his face, seeking answers. After a quiet minute, which stretched like an eternity, the light dawned on her face. "You're jealous of Teagan and me!"

"Of course I am! I mean," he winced and corrected, " _is_ there a you and Teagan?"

"No!" she blushed, and lowered her voice. "No, I turned him down _years_ ago."

Of all the things she could have said, he hadn't expected _that_. "What?"

"Oh, don't make a _thing_ out of it," she groaned. "You know this. I mean, I thought I explained— Mother offered to match me to just about every eligible noble in Ferelden. Teagan Guerrin was, I'm sure by the nature of his connection to the throne, on the short list. I swear I've already been over this with you."

He refused to let her dodge this, now that it was out in the open. "I don't mean when you were sixteen, Lis, fresh from your broken engagement, and he was just a name on a list. I mean now. I've seen the way he looks at you."

"So what? So what if he looks at me?" she laughed nervously. "I am a single woman of some means, still young enough to be marriageable and not, I think, unattractive."

He snorted. "You know I think you're beautiful. No need to needle for compliments." Even as he scolded her, he kissed her cheek, braver than he felt.

"Never hurts to hear," she said, touching the spot where the kiss lingered. "I care about you, Alistair. Don't really give a whit what anyone thinks about that, either."

He colored. "I… Then why did you flirt with him?"

She cringed. "Out of habit? Listen, I would never—" She rested her head on her templed hands. "Things have gone quite badly here, haven't they?" A deep sigh. "Nothing ever goes easy. End of the world hanging over our heads. If I'd known Redcliffe— I mean, I know how to be two things- a spy, and a noble's daughter."

"A spy?"

"What, you thought Duncan conscripted me because I'm handy with a bow? I know quite a bit about the craft. Cut my teeth in the Game. Ferelden is fairly simple, in comparison to the Court of the Lioness."

"That's how you knew Sister Leliana wasn't a bard."

"She was out of practice," Lissa answered flippantly. "As much as I do know, there are spheres in which I must be able to trust my advisers, my… friends. Morrigan tells me that all magic is inherently neutral, just a tool like a sword." Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "You insist that all blood magic is evil, a capital crime, but you still let Teagan run around drawing runes with bleeding fingers."

"I know," he said, "it's complicated."

"Then make it simple."

He searched for the simple answer. "Your life is more precious to me than a hundred blood mages."

"Alistair."

"I had reason to believe that Jowan would harm you to have his freedom. You had open wounds, obviously bandaged." He spoke carefully. "When I use my templar abilities, I become, hm, I guess the word is _sensitive_ , to a mage's mana draw. Some templars have to learn this, but it's always been natural to me. I believe I felt him pull."

"You believe?" she questioned, looking thoughtful.

"In hindsight," he confessed, honestly. He felt a little part of him crack. "In the moment, it was instinct."

She worried her bottom lip. She posed, very delicately, like she was walking on the edge of a razor: "In the future, how can I know you will obey orders?"

His heart dropped into his stomach. "I swear it."

Her knuckles went white, clenched together. "Don't you think I worry about you, every second?" Angry tears spilled from the corners of her eyes, shaking with emotion that she could no longer suppress. "I practically… last night I thought you died. And I think— I think I lost my mind. I think I did. I can't doubt you at my side. You're a blind spot. So if you're going to start countermanding me..." her voice went hoarse. "You need to leave, tomorrow."

"Elissa, please don't say that. You can't mean that." He searched her for any sign of hesitation, feeling nauseated.

"You had your chance to lead, and you turned it down. These people are my responsibility, as Warden. Tomorrow, I'm going to the Circle, with all those templars and mages who are too embroiled in their little feud to help when people need them. And I can't doubt myself. Doesn't matter how much I love you, if you interfere in—"

"You love me."

"What?" She had a haunted look about her face.

"You love me?" he repeated. It felt like his feet were rooted to the floor. "You said you love me."

"I didn't." With a frantic swipe, she wiped away a tear rolling down her nose. She looked blotchy, miserable, and a little snotty.

"You did!" he countered, baffled. "You can't send me away _and_ say you love me."

"Did I? I guess I did," she said, distressed. "Do you want me to take it back?" It was then that his knees gave out at last. He sank, slowly, with a _clank_ , as his armored legs hit the stone floor. Alistair looked up at her, dumbfounded, as she sobbed and wiped away tears with each hitch in her shoulders. Laughter welled up in him, spilling out in hot breaths. "What?" she demanded, cross from being laughed at.

"I had a speech prepared," he managed between gasps. "I thought I could convince you, ha, to love me." A shaky breath. "Morrigan was so sick of me practicing she was going to tell you for me. Maker's breath, should have known I just needed to make you mad."

"Morrigan knew? But— How long?"

"Since Lothering. Um, Maker. This sounds silly. Since that night we shared a bed in Bethany's house. I think I've been in love with you since then." He asked, hesitantly, "How about you? When did you know?"

"I don't know. I guess somewhere along the way I stopped hating you for what you represented."

"What I represented?" he repeated, thinking _bastard prince_.

"Warden. I didn't want to be a Warden. No family, no home, no future but the Blight," she whispered, pushing away the last of her tears. "Then, I don't know, somehow you became my family. And it stopped hurting." She leaned forward in the chair, tentatively touching his face. "A few nights ago, we…" she blushed, "you know. And after you were so angry. Everything has just gone to shit since then. I thought even though you knew… maybe you wanted me to be a virgin."

He blanched. "I've been an ass!" he said, striking the soft cushion with his fist. "Stuck in my own head, stupid. Maker take me. You were my first, and Maker willing, my last. But I'd never begrudge you for loving another when you were sixteen."

She exhaled, relieved, but still a little doubtful. "Then why did you…?"

"Leave you on what should have been one of the happiest nights of my life?" He glanced around the study, feeling the ghost of its owner. "Would you believe me if I blamed Eamon?" he said dryly. "All my life, it was made quite clear to me that I'm a commoner, with no claim to Maric's name or his throne. Then you worked it out, a powerful noble, a friend of the king, and you were _excited_ for me. Excited that we're cousins, that my grandmother and your grandmother were relations. Which is weird, by the way, you nobles are weird."

"We are, by and large, a very odd bunch," she agreed.

"I didn't know how to feel. So, stupid me, I skipped feelings and got drunk. Tried to get Eamon's voice out of my head."

"Arl Eamon isn't some font of blessed wisdom," scowled Elissa, fishing out the sheet of golden paper. "Look at this. It's an official message from the Sunburst Throne. Eamon petitioned the Divine for special dispensation."

"Whatever for?"

"He's been pressuring King Cailan to divorce Queen Anora."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cousland family ages are approximate, based on canon lore. Bryce, Eleanor, and Eamon must have gone gray-haired very young!


	19. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is nsfw

For a time after he woke, perhaps even as long as an hour, Alistair lay beside Lissa, counting each breath, watching the rise and fall of her chest while she slept. She was flat on her back, mouth open to inhale the stuffy, hot air, and with each exhale a little snore trickled out from between her lips. He admired the scene, transfixed, munching on a wedge of cheese, forgetting even to read his book.

They were stashed away below deck in a surprisingly lavish little cabin, outfitted with a real feather bed and soft white sheets. Dried roses, shriveled and black, were arranged in a crystal vase on the bedside table- an old present to the arlessa. This was the arl's personal vessel, a pleasure craft lent to them under the authority of Bann Teagan, with the urgency of their mission in mind. Redcliffe Harbor sheltered fishing boats almost exclusively, and thusly it was two fisherman who crewed their transportation. The _Isolde_ was faster and nimbler than any dinghy, commissioned by Eamon himself to teach Connor how to sail, apparently. Though, as her cabin was stocked to meet the needs of a woman of leisure— wine, romance novels, an armoire, and most tellingly a privy chair- Alistair assumed that the lord and his wife sometimes made use of the boat for _romantic_ purposes. That thought unfortunately lead to other, more terrible thoughts about the two of them using the very bed he rested upon, and _Holy Andraste._ He groaned out loud.

"Hush," commanded his lovely companion, opening one sleep-crusted eye, and then closing it again.

"Are you awake?"

"No," she said, running her hand along the sheet in the gap between them.

"Ouch!" he complained, "What did you pinch me for?"

"You got crumbs in the bed. That's disgusting," she scolded sleepily, rolling up onto her side. "Have you water?"

Alistair handed her his glass, then surreptitiously set to brushing the speckles of bread and cheese into the crease where his stomach pushed the mattress down. "If your throat's sore, it's because you were snoring."

"A lady does not snore." Still, she finished the glass in three loud, greedy gulps. "I hope you saved me some food. That picnic they packed was supposed to last us two days."

"Can't help it, I'm a Warden. Got a Warden's appetite."

"That's hardly an excuse," Elissa said as she sat up properly, stuffing a deformed down pillow behind her back. She brushed the sleep dust from her eyes.

"I didn't tease you that first night you ate two whole rabbits to yourself."

"Yes, you did! You said I must be possessed by a hunger demon and threatened to exorcise me."

"Really? I'd forgotten. But hey, that was gentle compared to... When I was a new recruit, they caught me raiding the larder in the middle of the night..." The smile receded from his lips as he realized she would not know any of the other Wardens in his story. Grigor, Tarimel, Kherek, Rondall— those names would mean nothing to her. "If you're finally hungry again, you must be feeling better."

"I'm bloody starving!" she exclaimed, and he grinned, glad his dip in mood had been missed. Alistair found her hand and squeezed it, feeling Jowan's ring press back beneath the tangle of their fingers. He loathed that thing, her "evidence". How it sat large and clumsy on her fine-boned hands, a man's ring, a murderer's ring, silently goading him for what he had done to its owner. Elissa was talking, and he realized he missed part of it, focusing on her again mid-sentence. "...needed was some sleep. It's not really a day off, but since we're stuck here until we reach the Circle Tower, I think— well, come on now, must I get it myself?"

"What?"

"Alistair," she said impatiently, "the food?" She shook her hand free, pointing at the table with the basket packed with travelling food: druffalo cheese, eel jelly, dark brown bread, Antivan raisins, and various sundries donated by villagers. Sealing off Redcliffe from an influx of refugees had an unintended consequence— they still had plenty of food to spare.

"Right. I live to serve, my lady," he laughed, rolling his eyes as he pictured her ordering servants about from the comfort of her bed. This image, he found, didn't bother him as much as it once had. She was, after all, the woman he _wanted_ to spoil. Not that he could afford do it, on a Grey Warden's salary, which was a pittance compared even to an enlisted soldier's pay. ' _Nice armor, though._ ' Actually, now that he thought of it, with Duncan and Constable Reyor gone, he had no idea who was left to pay them. Where did the money come from, Weisshaupt?

He slid off the bed, ducking to keep from bashing his head wound on the low, curved ceiling. The _Isolde_ pitched, caught in a wave, and the floor shifted under him. The jerky movement made his ears ring, and he moaned softy.

"Seasick?" Elissa asked sympathetically, crawling down to the end of the bed where he sat recovering.

"No, I think I've gotten used to it. You?"

"Hm?"

"Seasick, I mean."

She seemed surprised by the question. "No, never. Mother being who she was, we had our sea legs before we could walk."

"Of course… No, actually, you've lost me. Your mother was who?"

"Captain of the _Mistral_." At his blank look, Elissa grinned. "You know, it's actually nice to meet someone who doesn't immediately start up that damn song. Dad is— was— a particular offender."

"Song?"

She hummed, in her warm alto, the first few bars of a pub shanty he heard once in Denerim. "Come now, don't make me sing the whole thing, it's ten verses, for the Maker's sake. I'm not Leliana."

"Oh! I know it! It was the Battle of Denerim Harbor! Um, what was it… _The Seawolf and the Soldier_." He connected the dots, excitedly. "Your mother was the Seawolf! The famous pirate of the northern coasts. I _have_ heard of her."

"Privateer," she corrected. "Under Maric's service. _Seawolf_. A stupid title, in a family full of stupid titles. Grandfather was the Sea Giant of the Storm Coast. Honestly, if I don't survive this, _don't_ let our favorite bard assign me some hero's title in whatever ridiculous ballad she's writing."

 _Elissa Elethea Cousland, d. 9:30._ The page in the book appeared in his mind unbidden, and Alistair squeezed his eyes shut in pain. He substituted _Ostagar, Redcliffe,_ and a myriad of other battles in the place of her death. As though now that it was written down, it became prophecy, some inevitable fate for them both entombed. It made him want to take her, and run very far away, and he was not normally of a cowardly disposition. Love was... how could anyone bear it?

"What's wrong with you? Something I said?"

"Headache," he deflected, as his vision cleared. "Blast it. How long does a concussion usually last?"

"I don't know; I've never had one. The Circle of Magi will have spirit healers. Maybe they can fix you? Or, there are headache powders made from tree bark, which might help."

Alistair winced as she adjusted the bandage wrapped around his head, tightening it where it had come unravelled. "Wonderful, I'm really looking forward to it. Mages don't like me, you know."

"I wonder why that is?" she said, deadpan. "But you've never been to Kinloch?" Alistair handed her a sandwich wrapped in grease paper, cheese and pickle on rye. Lissa gave him a suspicious look before tucking in, too hungry to be picky.

"No, I haven't. I was about ten, remember, when Arlessa Isolde finally got in the family way, and had enough sway to exile me. Or however she phrased it, I don't know, I've never known if it was a debate between them. Just assumed Uncle Eamon would fight for me." He took a breath. "Then, I spent nine years in the monastery in Bournshire. I saw my first Harrowing there, would you believe, as a practical demonstration in a senior class, for those of us who were about to take our vows. I suppose they didn't know it would go so wrong; there's no real way to know beforehand. The apprentices are not told what a Harrowing will involve, only that if they pass the test, they will be fully-fledged mages. I was," he cleared his throat, " _volunteered_ to wash the poor girl's blood off the floor, after."

"How awful," Elissa murmured, stroking his back. Alistair hadn't noticed he'd been trembling until she steadied him with her touch. Her warmth was fortifying.

"I _can_ tell you that Kinloch is considered an excellent posting. Much better than the Free Marches. It's quiet, safe, predictable…" he laughed at the look of surprise she gave him. "Okay, so maybe it wouldn't have been my first choice either. But Knight-Commander Greagoir is a calm, well respected man in the Chantry, and he has the luxury of picking only the templars who match his temperament. Kinloch is, primarily, a school. I've even heard that the First Enchanter is pretty reasonable, for a mage."

"High praise from the templars," she ruminated. "So, where did you want to go?"

"I didn't," he answered bluntly. "After the Harrowing, all my doubts solidified. I didn't want to be one of them. _Couldn't_ be one of them. Kept pushing off my graduation; technically, they couldn't force me to take my vows. But the Grand Cleric wanted to keep me, especially because my father," he sighed, "well, you know. Was who he was. I tried writing to Eamon, but come to think of it, I don't know that they were being sent. She was probably intercepting them. So yeah, they kept me well and truly tucked away. I've seen more of the world in the past few months as a Warden than in my whole life. But before you get that pitying look on your face, I read lots of books, and studied maps... No matter what Morrigan says, I know plenty. And obviously," he finished dryly, "I'm decent with a sword."

"Don't bother about what Morrigan says," Lis cooed, as a teasing smirk broke across her lips. "She just doesn't appreciate the fine art of corrupting a pure Chantry flower."

"Flower?!" he complained, kissing a smear of relish off the corner of her mouth. "That's the best you could come up with?"

Elissa kissed him back, on the lips proper— long, lingering, and salty-sweet. A shiver went through him as they parted. "I'll try and do better next time."

"See that you do," he murmured, falling into her.

All around them, the blue-green waves of Lake Calenhad lapped and rocked the cutter, tossing them about like socks in a frothy wash tub. The wood cradling them creaked and moaned in protest against the open waters. But if they capsized and drowned in that very moment, Alistair would have died blissful. They drank wine straight from the bottle, bitter purple juices bursting against their tongues, and kissed each other dizzy. She pulled her dress, a white linen peasant gown decorated with green sprigs, off over her head, and told him of bathing in a fountain in her father's courtyard in Val Royeaux, under the moonlight. He lavished attention upon her breasts, and inspired by the sight, told her a naughty tale about how his templar classmates, lonely boys all, came to fetishize the Bride of the Maker. He learned two new things she could do with her hand upon his cock, and one new place to kiss her insensate. Privacy was a luxury they'd never really had, and he took fierce delight in making her hiccup and cry and beg for him. This time, when she gasped out "Alistair" with every thrust, he whispered back, "I love you" until she found her edge.

"I have something for you," she said after, breathing heavily into his neck. He rolled off of her and out of her, boneless and slick. The smell of his seed was pungent in the small, airless cabin, and for lack of a better way to clean up, he offered her a length of the bedsheet. "Thank you." He turned away politely. "I found it in a box in the arl's desk."

"If it's some sort of, I don't know—" he slipped on his trousers, tying up the front, "—little gold crown from when I was a bitty baby, you can keep it."

"That's adorable," Elissa said. "No, it's better to show you than explain. Side pocket of my pack, the small one, where I keep my cosmetics."

"Why would you just assume I know where you keep your powders?" Alistair grumbled mildly, lifting the pack off the floor by the bookshelf. From the corner of his eye, he saw her fasten her cambric breastband, pressing her bosom smooth and flattening her curves. It had to be terribly uncomfortable, he imagined, running around with them jiggling… ' _Maker, she'd smack me upside the head for picturing that!_ ' he thought with a grin. Elissa was fussy about her underthings, preferring to wash and hang them to dry each night in camp, rather than buy or borrow something that might not fit correctly. Chafing was apparently a sore issue, no pun intended, and as a cloth merchant's daughter she was especially particular.

He loosened the drawstring on the pouch, and plunged his hand inside. One by one he removed: a charcoal-colored powder, stored in a sealed glass vial; that purple stuff with which Morrigan liked to paint her eyes and mouth; a pot of creamy rouge; a tin of lip grease which smelled of marjoram; some rosewater for Leliana; a bottle of that musky perfume Lissa wore in her hair, that he liked so much; and one bone comb, polished silky to the touch. "I didn't tell you to go sniffing everything," she said, catching him dabbing out a drop of perfume onto the back of his hand. The oily brown daub evaporated against the heat of his skin, releasing a smell that reminded him of long winter nights in the Chantry, sandalwood incense on the coals of the brazier, a whiff of snow in the air.

"What is this stuff?"

"It's expensive, is what it is. Don't waste it, Alistair," she sighed, taking the dark amber bottle from his hands and screwing back on the metal cap. The liquid sloshed pleasantly inside.

"I like it. Not so pungently flowery. Most of the Sisters liked to reek of narcissus."

"You have a good nose," Lis approved, softening. "It comes from Orlais, from the same perfumery which supplies the Empress herself. Who knows when I'll be able to order more? I'm rationing." She bit the edge of her lip, looking mischievous. "Since Loghain's closed the border, perhaps I'll have to have it smuggled."

Alistair pulled her close, rubbing his fragrant hand against the pulsepoint on her neck, so she could smell like herself again. This bottle was her one indulgence, the one hint she had once been a highborn lady, not a soldier. She wore no jewels, no velvet slippers. She suffered gamely through his terrible cooking... wore men's boots stuffed with paper at the tips, even though they gave her horrific blisters… she'd even chopped off her long hair, though it was beginning to grow back. "When it's all over, just ask me, and I'll fetch it for you myself."

"I didn't know you were such a romantic," she scoffed, but he caught how her cheeks pinked with pleasure.

"I know! It's all part of my master plan."

She quirked her head. "How curious."

Alistair barked a laugh, feeling her eyes rake over his face. What she was searching for, he did not know, but he enjoyed her scrutiny. "Intrigued, are you? Don't be fooled into thinking I have hidden depths— I'm a puddle, my dear. What I mean is… I any excuse to travel. I spent the first twenty years of my life in prisons of other's choosing. I figure the next ten, at least, should be spent seeing as much of Thedas as I can. Warden's work goes all sorts of places."

The disappointment on her face was smoothed over so quickly, he could believe he'd imagined it. Just a hint on her lips, and then she turned pleasant and blank. "Of course, that sounds just like you. Here," she said, pressing something heavy into his palm. "Before I forget."

"What's this?" It couldn't be. Alistair knew it by touch, by the cool weight of the metal, before he even looked down. "How did you…" he swallowed down the quaver threatening him. "My mother's amulet. But how? I threw it against the wall, it shattered to _pieces_ …" His voice cracked and frayed.

"Someone has mended it, see?" She searched him earnestly. "Is it… Are you sure it's the right one? I thought it might be, but I wasn't sure, and then, I didn't want to say unless I thought for sure—" Not trusting himself to speak, he tenderly silenced her with a kiss. Lis pulled away with a dazed, "Oh." Color flamed her cheeks.

The amulet was simple, but beautiful. The silver pendant bore Andraste's flame on the face side. This one had clearly once been broken, but someone had carefully gathered up all the pieces and glued it back together. He rubbed the chain through his fingers, until a familiar lump in the knobby silver chain confirmed his suspicions. He'd tangled it as a small boy; though he could not remember doing so, he knew the defect he'd left behind. For a long time he was quiet, lost in reflection. "This was hers. I've seen the emblem before, in a book, but never on an amulet. And never one that looked this old," he explained. He turned it over. "It looks expensive. I'm not sure how it came to be in the possession of a serving girl. I guess I never noticed that as a kid. She died when I was... so young, I can't even remember her. Sometimes I think I have a fuzzy impression of her face, but I don't think that's possible," Alistair confessed. "This is the only thing I had to remember her, and I thought I'd lost it forever. Heh, listen to me blather. It's an old scar now. If anything, we should be talking about your mother."

Lifting her hand, Lissa deftly stroked away wetness from his cheek. When had he started crying? He didn't remember crying. "I don't mind."

"We can be orphans, together, and have our own miserable little club. No Morrigans allowed."

"Once she gets better, you can go back to ignoring her all you like."

"Well that goes without saying. You said it was in the study? Eamon must have saved it. Maybe he tried to give it to me, one of those times he came to visit at the monastery. But I don't understand." He sat heavily on the bed, and Elissa followed him.

"What's to understand?"

Alistair pursed his lips. "How could the same man who kept this for me, all this time, who must have forgiven me for my childish, belligerent anger... How could he be the same man who plotted to break up my brother's marriage?"

Elissa shook her head, folding her hands in her lap. "It's love, and politics. They should never be mixed, but yet we always do."

"Loghain clearly plans to keep his daughter on the throne, whatever the cost, even if that leaves her queen of a pile of blighted ashes." Lissa leaned her head on his shoulder, watching him play with the amulet in his hands. It hardly felt real, to have it back.

"We have a motivation for him now, at least. The teryn loves his only child."

"It makes it harder to hate him when you put it that way," Alistair frowned. "Why couldn't it be greed, or malice, or insanity? Why did it have to be love?"

"As I said... " she began, and grimaced, baring her teeth. "To be a woman, in that kind of role, it means… Consider Empress Celene. Despite heaps of political pressures, she refuses to marry. They do not care that she prefers the company of women, naturally, it is Orlais after all."

"Wow."

"What? No, don't focus on that, for Maker's sake. She could have a thousand lovers— not that I've heard anything, don't look at me like that— but if she hasn't got a _husband_ , then she can't have any _babies_. She'll have to name her cousin, the Grand Duke, her heir, or risk a war." She waved her hand. "I assume the Chantry told you where babies come from?"

"Maker's breath!"

She smiled wickedly. "That's a yes, then."

"Don't tease me, woman." He scoffed, flicking her on the ear.

"But you're so nice to tease. Your ears turn red."

"Ahem. You were saying?"

"Very well. I got the impression from Cailan's side of the correspondence that Eamon thought Anora was getting too old to produce little blond Theirins."

"That hypocritical bastard. Took Isolde ages to have Connor."

"I'm not saying I agree with Arl Eamon, but from his point of view, Anora failed in her wifely obligations to the king."

"But what if it was Cailan? Maker's breath, I can't believe I'm saying this, but even if he somehow was allowed to divorce Anora, and managed not to start a civil war in the process… couldn't the problem have been… him?" he squeaked out.

"Rode a horse too hard on a rutted road, you mean? Fell on a fencepost?"

His stomach gave a pang of sympathy, and he had the urge to cradle his _manly goods_. "Ugh, yes. Thank you for spelling it out, you wicked woman."

"You thought of it. Eamon didn't. Or perhaps, he… no, I don't know. Remind me to interrogate him if he pulls through."

"Fine." He considered opening another bottle of wine, for courage. Words were coming to his mouth that he hardly dared to say. ' _She doesn't need to know, not now, when we're having such a nice day._ ' While he argued internally for keeping his mouth shut, he found himself talking anyway. "Lissa, speaking of wifely duties…"

She smiled, and twirled a lock of her hair in embarrassment. "Don't worry, I've been choking down Leliana's awful contraceptive potion regularly. We'll be fine."

"Okay. I did not know that. Good, I mean. Maker's breath, that's not what I need to…"

"Well?"

' _Wardens can't have children. Say it. Say, Grey Wardens are sterile. No tainted babies for us. The chances are so low, between us, we can never make a baby. No, how did she say it? No little blond Theirins.'_ He opened his mouth, and no sound came out.

"Alistair?"

"Nothing, my dear. Never mind." ' _Just that_ _I'm a coward_ ,' he thought. "Would you like some more to drink?" he said. He slipped his mother's amulet over his head, and it rested against his heart, a cold lump on bare skin.

* * *

**END PART ONE**


	20. Dreamland

**Part Two : _Going Off Script_**

* * *

 

He had the most bizarre sensation of falling, the kind of abrupt sensation one might feel on the edge between sleeping and awake, like the earth had opened up to swallow him in its great maw. The world jolted and he softly gasped and then…

Nothing. It was, after all, a perfectly ordinary day. He looked down, and even as the tension receded from his temples, he found that he was clutching a fistful of black soil. How strange. He chuckled, righting himself, and wondered why he had done such a thing. The birds began to sing.

This sunset was particularly beautiful, the sky above the walnut trees awash in crimson and orange, pink and blue. The earth beneath him bled summer beat, dry and hungry, cracking along the path as it cried out for rain. Nestled under the rose bushes on his hands and knees, Alistair poured a slow shower of warm water from his tin can. This was his favorite part of the garden, where the pink and white blossoms crawled up the whitewashed trellis beside the gravel path. The roses, temperamental beasts all, would have wilted if not for the care of a diligent gardener. Alistair had always liked beauty for beauty's sake, liked having the time. His green thumb, his aptitude for growing things, had been a pleasant surprise.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the baby, making sure he didn't stumble too close to the pruning scissors. Behind him, the air was filled with children's voices, calling to one another, hooting and laughing and singing. The youngest of the brood hovered on unsteady legs, never more than three steps away from his father. It did make him easier to mind. After all, hadn't Duncan had to be roped to a pole by eighteen months? What a willful child he'd been! Bry snuffled, pink with allergies, nose perpetually dripping, and shoved a fistful of dirt into his mouth. "Hey!" Alistair squawked, "Don't eat that." The baby beamed, offering him full view of tiny muddy teeth, and deliberately swallowed. "No, yucky… fine, well don't tell Mama I let you do that."

He stood, brushing the soil from his trousers, and swept his little son into a bear hug, earning a well deserved squeal and a dirty handprint on his bristled cheek. Bry settled into his father's arms as they walked, fat thighs anchoring around his hip. Alistair surveyed his garden full of children, smiling. By and large they favored him— curly golden locks and tawny skin. From long days in the summer sun, they were even darker, bronze-cheeked and glowing. All except Eleanor, who took after her mother, fair and redheaded. She consistently forgot to wear the oversized sunhat meant to keep her from burning. Speaking of which—

"Ella," he addressed his middle child, who was waist-deep in wine-colored hollyhocks. She turned over the dark green leaves with great concentration. "What are you doing?"

"Hunting snails," she said, without looking up. Her voice was piping and practical. She stuck her hand in the pocket of her apron, to reveal a collection of little brown shells. Never a bit squeemish, was his Ella.

"Dare I ask what for? Not to eat, I hope," he teased gently. "Supper will be ready soon, but if you're that hungry, I'm sure we can find you something."

"No, silly! The snails hurt the flowers."

"They do like hollies, don't they?" he agreed, with a swell of pride at the idea that she might follow in her father's footsteps. Still, he was familiar with the games the children played, and so he questioned, "What will you do with them when you have enough?"

"Put them down Caila's dress," Eleanor explained, as though this was obvious.

"Ha, what has she done to deserve a— a snailing?" Was that the word for it?

She looked up at him with big amber eyes, familiar as looking in a mirror. "Can't tell you. See! Mother's back from her trip."

"I'm not done with you," he warned cheerfully, yanking her hat back onto her mussed head with his free hand. "Tie that up before Mama sees how freckly you're getting, and I spend the night in the dog house."

"Again!" snickered the girl, smoothing the pale blue ribbon under her chin.

"Yes, again," he said, rubbing the loamy drool from Bry's dimpled chin. "I swear you lot conspire against me." Successfully untangling himself from the clingy baby, he set the little'un on the soft brown grass beside his sister. The boy howled in protest, flinging his arms up. "Mind Bry while I greet your mother, please."

From over the hill came his beloved wife, striding purposefully, wearing a silvered bow strapped to her back. Her head swiveled around as she took it all in— the Blue Cottage in the clearing, its shingles like thick white frosting; the distant sound of the lazy river, low from the lack of rain; how the air was colored with the sweetness of lavender for miles around, growing lush in their neighbor's field.

"There you are," Alistair grinned. Lighthearted, he'd jogged to meet her at the bend in the path. "It's funny, I was just thinking about you, and here you are. Hello!"

"It's like walking through an oil painting," said Elissa, wide eyed. "Do you always dream this vividly?"

"What a funny thing to say."

"The others, I couldn't even begin to see what they were seeing, but this…" she inhaled. "It even smells real. Hello, Alistair." Her dark green eyes scrutinized him carefully. "You are the real Alistair, aren't you? I've been wrong before."

"The really real one," he confirmed cheerfully, taking her by the arm.

"If I've been taken in by another trap, I shall never forgive you. This isn't—" she looked down, for the first time noticing the prominent swell of her belly, straining against the buckles on her leather jacket. "Sweet Andraste, never mind, I know this isn't _my_ dream!"

"Lissa," he whispered, brow crinkling in confusion. "You're not making any sense. Less so than usual, at least. Did something happen while you were gone? Is it the baby?"

"Baby? What? I— No." She stroked her hand down the round lump. "This is ridiculous, even for… Curious. It's heavier than I could have imagined. Still not the weirdest thing I've done today. Been several… transformations," she said, gesturing a vague, wiggly line. "You wouldn't believe it. I hardly do."

Something was wrong— he imagined fever, sickness, troubles with the child she was carrying. But the thoughts were brief, slippery, fuzzy. Alistair could no more hang on to them than he could grip the green fog, swirling about their ankles. He blinked, and smiled blandly. "Of course, my dear. You must be tired after such a long day."

"Where are we?" she asked, letting him guide her down the path, past the lemon grove. Duncan, hanging upside down from a tree, gave him a wave. Caila, her sun-bleached hair hanging down in frizzy curls to her waist, gathered the yellow fruit he shook down into a willow basket. Rosie, the pretty toddler in their care, unhelpfully pulled them back out again.

"East of Montsimmard, of course. In the valley."

"It's very nice," she said thoughtfully. "Love all the flowers."

"Yes, you do," he agreed. "I planted them for you. We've been very happy here."

"I smell lemon— from the trees, I see— and the roses and, hm, basil, I think."

"That's right. The herb garden beside the kitchen door has been bountiful this season."

"Maker's breath, Alistair, just how many children are there? I've counted five!"

"Sixth on the way," he reminded her, with a fond pat. "Always wanted to be surrounded by family."

"Why would ever agree to all…" she squirmed. "All of these children?"

"Because it's fun to make them," he laughed. "We have such beautiful children, and the Maker has been generous. I can't think of one thing that would make me happier, than to spend my days surrounded by them. And you, of course, dearest wife."

"What do you call them?" There was a tinge of curiosity in her voice. Whatever game it was she wanted to play, he would humor her.

"Duncan's the oldest, of course. Then Caila, Eleanor, Rose, and Bryce. Due for a boy this time around, I think, to even the sides. You're in need of a cup of tea," he decided, sitting her on the bench. An arch in the trellis overhead provided a canopy of lush leaves and white roses, shading her eyes from the intensity of the sun. "Either you're dehydrated, or the family way has addled your head."

"It has not!" she protested hotly, then looked surprised at herself. Disorientation swept over her face, like the cloud which briefly passed over the sun. "I'm meant to be…" Bry toddled up, holding onto Ella's hand, and demanded in his babble to be picked up. She complied, sitting him on what was left of her diminishing lap. A teacup materialized into Alistair's hands, on command, and he blew on the steam to cool it.

"Hello, Mama," said Eleanor, serious as always.

"Hello," Elissa repeated absently, studying the baby. The little face was round, with a square jaw and oversized green eyes. "He looks a little like Oren." There was a token of sadness in this admission.

"That's why we named him after your father." He stroked her hair, settling the flyaways. She wore it in a braid to hunt, keeping it out of her eyes, but he preferred when it was long and loose, spilling like water down her back.

"It's very compelling, this dream you built. So compelling, I could see myself staying, for just a little while longer." She leaned forward, and kissed her son's soft, grubby cheek. "But obviously, I can't. This is far too dangerous already."

"What? Where are you going?"

"Don't leave, Mama!" said Caila and Duncan, in unison. They appeared out of nowhere, not that Alistair noticed. Rosie hoisted herself up onto the bench, still holding a lemon, and buried herself in her mother's side.

"This is hardly fair. I've never had to argue against so many, before. The demon is growing desperate."

"Demon? What demon? What are you talking about?" Alistair crossed his arms. "Are you having Blight nightmares again? Lis, my pet, we left all of that behind, ten years ago."

"Did we?" There was a trace of a smile on her lips. "What happened? Tell me the story."

"Well, we… we killed the Archdemon, and then…"

"Then the Orlesian Grey Wardens invited you to Montsimmard," said Duncan.

"Yes, and then we…"

"Then you retired to the Blue Cottage," prompted Eleanor.

"As heroes," added Caila, "with a very generous salary."

"No more," finished Rosie. "All gone."

"Mama, we tell the story at least once a week," Duncan said, "because you forget. It's okay, you will remember now."

Elissa looked dizzy from tracking all these competing voices. Alistair reached for her, but the children steadied her before he could approach. "What— What about Highever?"

"Uncle Fergus is the Teyrn of Highever. Aunt Anora is the Queen of Ferelden. You gave all that up, to stay with Papa."

"That doesn't sound like me," she disagreed, shaking her head. "I…"

"Don't you love Papa?" asked Eleanor pointedly. "Papa loves you. We want him to be happy."

"Of course I do, um, Ella, was it?" she swallowed, "I love him very much."

"Now children," Alistair interceded, "it's not nice to gang up on your mother. She's very tired from a long day, and we must be gentle with her. What do you say, shall we arrange her supper?"

He took a breath, but it was too late. Clouds gathered over the fading sunlight, bringing with them the surprise of an evening storm. The wind suddenly whipped through the hollyhocks, setting the petals shivering in the gale. "Come Papa," urged Ella, "we must take shelter."

"Come away with us!"

"Come!"

"Enough!" Elissa said sternly, and her eyes narrowed to pinpricks. "Away with you. Begone!" She raised her fist, and there was a sound like a thousand candles snuffing out all at once.

And then they were alone. The path was jarringly deserted, except for the hollyhocks, who waved their handsome heads in the sickening green glow. A spatter of rain hissed against the dry, dusty gravel.

"What have you done?" he asked, when he could find his voice again. His head was very thick and muddled, and his eyes had become dry and hard to blink. It was very much like he had slept too long into the day, and now found it hard to wake and face the light. "What have you done with my children?"

"Don't freak out!" she said, just as startled as he. She cupped her fist with her left hand, drawing back into her now-empty lap. "Never thought that would work. I just... Would you believe I have sent them all to bed?"

He wanted to believe her. Some part of him was desperate to forget. Her look was so intense it sent a little shiver down his spine. It was as though she had not seen him in a very long time— admiring the lines that had deepened around his mouth over the decade they had spent together. A subtle change, but taken altogether with fresh eyes he was a different man. Wine had not yet bloated his slender waist; his broad shoulders were still well muscled from chopping firewood and mending fences. If anything, he was bulkier- he no longer looked like a squire in his lord's chainmail. "They're just inside the house and are fast asleep." She tried to be comforting. It wasn't one of her strong suits.

"No, they... they disappeared," he insisted, pushing past the falling sensation in his stomach. "Something isn't right."

She exhaled in relief. "Thank the Maker. I was beginning to think I wouldn't be able to pull you out. I've never encountered a dream so lifelike. We are, as you might have guessed by now, in the Fade." She added as a considered afterthought, "Again." Elissa roughly squeezed his hand, knocking the cup from his shaking fingers. It tumbled to the ground, spilling, and he braced himself for the shattering sound which never came. Instead he found it back in his hands, steaming hot, fresh, and unharmed. Had it even fallen, or had he just imagined that?

"The Fade? How long have we been here?" he asked, squeezing his eyes shut with a heavy, deliberate blink. The image of her wavered in front of him, and her face blurred. He rubbed the rim of his eye, expecting to find that tears had clouded his vision, but his index fingertip came away dry.

"I imagine it was been rather more different for you, than for I. Every Dreamer I've met saw something different."

"What do you mean, every Dreamer?" Before him, her face reformed, swirling away to reveal a younger impression of herself. The lines of her jaw were too sharp, the softness of motherhood and pregnancy and home-cooked meals ripped away. The scar on her cheek was fresh, purple-pink and angry. In a moment the visage of his round, beautiful bride was gone, and left behind was a lean, hungry wolf in Warden blue armor. He sucked in breath. "You're the Warden!"

She agreed, "I am," and did not expound further.

"You can't be… we've been retired for—"

"Ten years, yes, you said. It's different for everyone. For Wynne, it was only minutes after the death of her students. The same minutes, over and over."

"Wynne, the old woman? She's here?" He glanced down the path toward the hill, but saw and heard nothing. It was deadly silent; even the birds had fled at her command. In their place, tiny cottony wisps peeked down from the trees, watching them.

"Yes, and her young friend, Solona. Can you remember the tower? It took me very little time to break out of my dream, but so much longer to—" she stroked her face, a nervous gesture of exasperation. "It's been very hard going. The Demon of Sloth who controls this part of the Fade is quite powerful, and raw persistence only got me so far. I've had to learn from the others how to to move through the doors."

"Others?"

"The other Dreamers. Magic users. Mages and templars," she said quickly, as though he should have understood. "There are magical doors on the islands which are sealed by different kinds of dream magic. Transformations. And then between the islands, pathways in the fonts. Well, they're fonts to me— they might look entirely different to you."

"Lis, you're talking complete nonsense," Alistair scoffed.

"I am," she agreed. "Obviously, I'm not a mage. I should not have been able to do it. By all accounts it should have been impossible for me, but Niall says I'm fade-touched. See?" She lifted her fingers to demonstrate. From the first inch of the tips he saw a shimmer, heard the impossibly sweet tinkling of the lyrium song, the bells which peeled from raw, primal magic.

He inhaled. "That's not possible."

"I've been inside the Raw Fade. I've touched the clusters of lyrium, which burn bright and blue against the dark. You have too, you know. It's why your dream is so strong. You're shaping the Fade, wrapping it around yourself like a cloak. It took me weeks to find your door. You're the very last." Her lips twitched. "Time passes differently here. Niall says it might be only a few hours away from our bodies."

It was all so much to take in. Her confidence in her reality was ruining his. The vines on the trellis were wilting, turning to black before his very eyes. "I can't believe this. You're saying that none of this is real. But our babies, they're real. I know they are. They—" A lump formed in his throat. "I know them better than I know myself. Please, Lis, tell me my children are real," he begged.

She winced, and the breath caught in his lungs. "I don't think so. They might just be spirits, drawn in by the power of your dream." She continued on, speculating tentatively that they could also be demons, but he could not hear her.

Alistair turned to his home, thinking that the bean soup might be burning in the pot, if no one had stirred it. Little Caila would want her bread, Duncan would want his tea, doctored up with cream and honey.

The birds began to sing again.

* * *

 


	21. Mirror

A voice was calling to him at a great distance, echoing as though shouted across a chasm. "No! Alistair, I know that glassy-eyed look. You come back to me, right this instant!"

Alistair blinked. He was… He was sitting in the rose garden, enjoying the late afternoon sun. He could hear the children in the lemon grove, squabbling over a spot on the best tree branch. In a moment, he would have to get up and referee the fight, before someone fell and hurt themselves, but he was just so warm and comfortable. Sweet, languid honey filled his veins. It was almost impossible to consider moving.

"Can you even hear me?" asked the voice, whispered tenderly in his ear, the sigh of a lover. "Alistair, please come back to me, my love."

He looked to his left, then quickly to his right. He was alone, as expected. Where was that sound coming from? "I'm hallucinating," he said absently, to the warm breeze.

"I need you to try. Try and remember…. what we were doing before. Remember Kinloch." The pitch rose and fell, a little tickle in the back of his skull, a buzzing annoyance.

Kinloch? That was so very long ago. The past was faint and gray, the days of the Blight just a memory of a dark year in his youth. His children lived in a world free from the danger of the Taint.

"Please try?" pleaded the formless voice, and he shivered, feeling invisible lips graze the shell of his ear. Darkness bloomed in the corners of his vision.

* * *

_**some time earlier…** _

* * *

Standing under the shadow of the great tower of the magi made the hair on the back of Alistair's neck stand on end. He could more than just feel the magic resonating from the stone, he could smell it, taste it… as though each of his senses was competing for his attention. He'd never been this close to Kinloch Hold, never seen it more than just a smudge on the glimmering horizon. This was… overwhelming. It felt distinctly _wrong_ , unnatural, an acrid flavor that reminded him somehow of the big, deep voice coming from the tiny form of Eamon's son. Was it always like this? How could anyone stand living here?

"What's wrong?" asked Elissa from the top of the gangway of the _Isolde_. Her right hand fiddled with the strap which tied down the griffon-styled spaulder on her left shoulder. From the grim expression under her hood, it was probably aggravating the wound underneath, rubbing against the bandages. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Do you ever wonder why the mages chose the tower in Lake Calenhad?" he replied, staring out from the stone dock toward the crumpled bridge and yonder shoreline. The tiny hamlet beyond existed only to trade with the mages; fresh meat, cloth, and other supplies could be rowed out twice a day on a favorable tide. The Circle Tower stood on a rocky island, tall and bleak as a dead tree. By and large, places like these were self-sufficient by necessity, but Kinloch was crippled without her neighbors. He chuckled thinly. "I mean, just look at it. Do they have an aversion to practicality or something?"

She did look, craning her neck upward to admire the peak of the structure. Her hood slid back, setting a few inches of flame-colored bangs loose. "I don't know, I think it's rather beautiful, Alistair. It reminds me of a scepter and a crown. See the how the spokes are like a circlet? Well, at least from this angle. It's Avaar built, correct? In function it reminds me of Redcliffe, but this is a completely different motif."

"You know your architecture," he agreed, sticking out his hand to help her disembark.

"Hardly. I'm sure Brother Aldous tried instructing me once, but there was always something more interesting to do at home. Sword training with Gilly and Fergus, climbing the sea wall… one strong spring gust and all the musty books blew right out of my head." A ghost, not quite a smile, flickered across her mouth. "I was a terrible student, something I've recently come to recognize that I need to amend. I _have_ been listening to you." He wasn't sure if that was meant to be a complement or a barb.

Alistair was grateful she couldn't see his face clearly under the cover of twilight darkness, or else she might see his irritation. Try as she might to write herself off as a simple-minded soldier or a dozy child, they both knew this was a lie, a misdirection intended to push him away. Elissa Cousland was a clever, capable woman, but she did have the annoying habit of demurring her abilities. Alistair suspected this was the handiwork of Eleanor Mac Eanraig, a woman who had been as famous a war hero as Rowan or Moira, but who had chosen to be consumed by her husband's identity. Until the _Isolde_ , Lissa hadn't had much to say about her mother, except that the late teyrna found her daughter to be difficult and... unladylike. That the scandal of her broken engagement with Nathaniel had ruined her marriage prospects, leaving her only the scraps, boys hardly old enough to be called men, like Dairren of Oswin, or Thomas of Amaranthine. "Squires," she'd expounded with derision, claiming that she'd never wanted to be married anyway. Fergus had taken up with an Antivan while at university, and skipped their mother's machinations altogether. More was the pity that a noble girl could not do the same for herself, she said,even while reclined in the arms of her lover. (Alistair in that moment was dubious. Could she have loved him as a commoner? As Alistair of the Grey? After all, the very same night she took him to the bed was the night he confessed his paternity. He stung with something like jealousy, or despair.)

Actually, Lissa rarely spoke of Highever at all without drinking deeply from the cup of bitterness. Her grief insulated her, distanced her, and she wore it like a shield, fending him off with it whenever he threatened to get too close. The trip across Lake Calenhad had offered a momentary truce, but not a cessation of hostilities. Her shoulders were tense, especially when she laughed, and this in turn made his abdominal muscles clench. He knew the blow-by-blow before it even began: she'd seize on some careless turn of phrase and hammer him into the ground with it. A pity she'd specialized as an assassin; she'd have made an excellent warrior.

He found his voice after a moment. Best to be neutral: "You might be interested to know, then, that Kinloch is meant to be quite haunted. The Fereldan Circle only uses it because the tower in Denerim was destroyed. The Veil was once torn here."

"Once?"

"It's been mended. Spirit magic can manage small repairs. But it's never quite whole in the same way again."

"Fascinating," she hummed.

The plank creaked under her clumsy Warden-issued boots, sized for a man's larger feet, and stuffed with paper and rags to accommodate her. "First time we come across a cobbler, I'm buying you a properly fitting pair of calfskin boots, the best gold can buy" he said, frowning. "I'm tired of seeing you limp around, covered in blisters."

"What, no drakeskin?"

"The best _silver_ can buy," Alistair amended. "I'm going to be boiling shoe leather for dinner as it is."

"I won't let you go hungry," Elissa laughed merrily, tucking in close to his side. "Have Leli steal them." Some grateful village women had repaired her gambeson, but this close he could see the bloodstains which wouldn't wash clean, brown against the sapphire blue quilting. The hastily mended places would never be truly whole.

Another little reminder that they'd nearly died in Redcliffe. One would think that he would be used to that sort of thing by now, but he just… wasn't. Sometimes, when she thought he wasn't paying attention, Lissa would look at him, and her eyes would scrunch up with unshed tears. His 'pretty face', as she'd mockingly called it once, was a mottle of bruises, blue and violet cascading down his forehead and cheek from the crown of his head. The skin was shiny and stretched from the swelling, too tender to touch, and yet he kept finding himself pressing on the puffy flesh. It was like how his tongue could never resist playing with a loose tooth. The pain reminded him he was still there.

"You dodged my question before, Alistair. What's wrong?"

"I can't say," he sighed. "That is to say, I don't know. This is supposed to be a diplomatic mission, but I get the feeling we should have brought some of the others."

"Who would you have brought? Teagan? Dwyn? Leliana is coordinating the defense of the village, Sten has some kind of pathological issue with mages, and Morrigan is…" A magical torch _whooshed_ into life as they passed, and Elissa flinched. "Maker's breath!" In pairs, one set after the next, the tall lamps which lined the dock ignited. "At least it's appropriately theatrical. No one's doing any sneaking here."

"It deters escape," Alistair explained tersely, squinting. The intensity of the flames was ruining his night vision. The dim blue-black line of the shore across the water vanished, leaving them trapped between columns of fire. A bright corridor leading to the front gate, with a curtain of black enshrouding the outside world.

"How apropos. For obvious reasons, we could not bring Morrigan here, even if she wasn't hurt." She squeezed his arm, shivering as a whip of damp air sliced across the lake. It could get cold enough on the water at night, even in the summer, to necessitate a cloak. "I do trust your instincts, Alistair, even if I… Even if you— Nevermind that. You know what I mean. What sort of feeling are you getting?"

"I think it would be best if we find the Knight-Commander quickly."

"Are we allowed weapons inside?"

"It's not a prison."

"Isn't it? Oh, don't give me that look. You just said yourself—"

"I say a lot of things, Lis." He threw up his free hand in exasperation.

"I know," she smiled grimly. "Remember the plan?"

"Tonight we are both just Grey Wardens, looking to use the treaties. Not… whatever we were before. An ex-Templar and a teyrna."

"It's better to keep a minimal profile, if it can be managed. We don't know how many Templars are working for the Regent. Could be all of them."

"We can't take the maleficar's story on fact, Lis. He would have said anything—"

"But we cannot risk _not_ believing Jowan. The mage hunters brought him directly to Loghain."

"I'm still not sure they were real mage hunters. The Templars serve the Chantry, not the throne of Ferelden."

"Alistair," she rebuked, in a stern whisper. She disentangled herself from his hold. "We haven't got the time for this now."

"It's not worth fighting over," he conceded. "If I'm honest, it's a relief to be just Warden Alistair tonight, not…" ' _Bastard Prince Theirin,_ ' he finished silently.

"I understand."

"Not sure that you do," he muttered, scarcely realizing he had spoken aloud.

"Oh." Elissa stomped, boots echoing on the stone. "Tell me how you really feel!"

"Fuck, I didn't mean-"

She spun to face him; her nostrils were flaring in anger. "Don't start lying to me now, to spare my feelings."

"Okay, yes, I meant it, but I didn't intend on saying it out loud."

"Obviously!" She exhaled a jagged breath. "Obviously I couldn't understand having an unwanted position of power. I could never sympathize!"

"Because being an unwitting heir and being a Warden are the same thing," he snapped back, sarcastic. "You're free to—"

"Free? Only to you!" she hissed. "You wanted to be a Grey Warden, not me, but you don't see me running away from my responsibilities.."

"Again, with this fight? How many times do I have to say it? I'm not running! I'm just… I don't want to be king, yes, but I'm not running away from anything. I have responsibilities, too. To Ferelden, to the Grey Wardens, to my oath. As long as the Archdemon is alive, my responsibility is to the Blight. Unlike Loghain, I'm not interested in using the chaos to further my claim on warming a particularly special chair. You know, if killing darkspawn is hindering your master plan, _you_ could _leave_."

" _What?_ " she croaked. In the light, he could see his own reflected face in her watering eyes. His mouth was twisted into a sneer, bitter, strange. The Prince, standing above the waters named for his royal ancestor Calenhad. He hardly recognized himself, and was stunned by this realization. Just like the mirror in the Chamberlain's quarters, again he only saw a stranger. She buried her face in his neck before he could know for certain. "As easy as that, huh?" she whispered, miserably.

Wetness trickled down his throat. "You're crying," he noted, mechanically embracing her. That motion at least was familiar and correct, soothing the angry pulse which tied them together. She always provoked him. He had even anticipated it this time, how she would use a fight to mask her real feelings. But why couldn't he resist her? It was like the pull of the moons upon the dark water, a tide of emotion rushing over him. Something about that was wrong. If she was the mirror, he was a shadow warping, changing under her silvered sight. Alistair, so distracted, failed to see that _he_ had begun the argument.

"I'll stop," she promised damply. "Give me a moment. I don't suppose you know how to reverse the Joining?

"No, I'm sorry." Bruises be damned, Alistair pressed his cheek against the crown of her head. The ache was dull, easy enough to ignore. "There was a rumor I heard, of a Warden mage who lessened the effects."

"Who? Can we contact them?"

"I'm not sure. Actually, I'm not sure if it even really happened. Truth be told, at the time I wasn't all that interested in knowing, one way or the other. You're right. I did want to be a Warden; I was so excited when I was chosen that it's hard to imagine feeling otherwise." He pulled back a little, so he could look at her. "Duncan would have known. I'm sorry he's not here to fix this for you."

"You really think Duncan would have let me go, when he went to all that trouble to keep me? Maybe I would have ended up like Jory."

"Don't talk like that." Alistair needed not to picture Elissa furious, arguing with her new commander, deciding that Duncan couldn't really force her to stay… To even consider it dishonored Duncan's memory. The sword sliding cleanly through her chest, like Jory, like Jowan. The hot smell of blood pouring out like molten slag in a blacksmith's crucible. His mouth went dry. "I'm sure you could have leveraged some of your impressive influence with the Weisshaupt higher-ups."

"Maybe that was the point," she softly countered. "He _collected_ us, like, like, pawns to be used against King Cailan."

"Enough! I won't hear this. I won my position, I competed in a tourney for it! I didn't become a Warden just because I was Maric's son…" Elissa gave him a look so knowing, so sad, that it split away a piece of his very soul. "Maker's breath. That's exactly what you think."

"I am sorry. I'm not casting aspersions on your capabilities. But you said Duncan knew."

"It's why you and I were kept from the battle, isn't it?" Alistair cast about himself, expecting to find the painful flush of betrayal and embarrassment rising up in his stomach, but he found that he was muted, hollow, like he could not summon up any more feelings. If he had to venture a guess, some part of him had known and understood since Ostagar, that try as he might, he would never be free from his birthright. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, sensing her tense against him. "Duncan set us on this path."

"Unintentionally, accidentally, even."

"Yes… There was no way he could have known that we'd be the only surviving Wardens, or that my brother would fall."

" _Surviving_ is such a strong word," said Elissa. "If Flemeth hadn't pulled us from the top of that tower…"

"And Maker knows what else she did to us." With every passing day, the _thing_ between them grew stronger. At first it had been as fine as a spider's gossamer thread, but it had thickened, become something more tangible than that. Sometimes, in the drowsy moments before sleep, he thought he saw it out of the corner of his eye— a golden strand of magic, passing between them. In the waking world, it was invisible, only a prickling hint in his senses, drowned out by louder flares of power like Morrigan or the Redcliffe wards, and so it was easy to forget. Alistair still hadn't told Elissa it was there, for how could he explain it? She lived the world like a Tranquil, blissfully detached from the Fade and obviously ignorant in magical theory. It would be like trying to explain colors to a child born blind. For all his fascination with things arcane, he just didn't have the words for it. "I know you don't like it, but as long as we're the last two Wardens in Ferelden, _we_ have to carry on."

"We could make more."

"But I don't even know what's in the ritual potion. Only Duncan knew, and maybe the mage who helped him prepare it."

"Who was that?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Some Circle mage, the same one who wanted to use magic to light the beacon in the Tower of Ishal. I think they called him Uldred."

* * *

"Uldred!" Alistair said. "We wanted to speak to Uldred about the Joining."

"That's right," confirmed the ghostly impression of his wife. She was sitting to his left, transparent but glowing with a faint blue tinge. The mysterious voice taken form again, even if it was only an ephemeral shape. "Uldred is the reason we're trapped here."

"Trapped?"

"In the Fade!" she said with exasperation. "Please, try and focus for me. The longer we linger, the less likely it is we'll ever wake up."

"Why do you look like that?"

"What do I look like? Remember, I don't see things here the same way you do."

"You're like a spirit. I can see right through you." He struggled against the molasses feeling in his limbs, trying to reach out and touch her. "How do I know you're even real? You look like the least real-looking thing here!"

"How can I…? Oh, I know, the eyes!" she exclaimed, after a moment's hesitation. "They never manage to get the eyes just right. That's how I knew when I had found an impression of you, not the real you. By the third time, at least. Fool me once… Look at me in the eyes and you'll know I'm me."

Large, shimmering eyes, set just slightly too far apart to be conventionally attractive, more a curiosity. Framed by long lashes, and thick eyebrows, a few shades darker than her hair. "I'm trying. But you're blurry. And sort of… colorless?" he tried to explain, feeling strangely apologetic. "I'd know them most by the color. I can see the vines behind you, dark green, like your eyes should be. But you've become like a smudged window."

"I don't understand it," she said, mostly to herself. "It wasn't this hard for the others. You should have some modicum of control here; this is your island!"

"Island?" he questioned. "Is that a metaphor for something? We're surrounded by woods and fields. No ocean for miles."

"You must be pushing me away. Why don't you trust me?" Elissa buried her head in her hands. "Damn it, I know this isn't how this was meant to go. I can't… I can't remember?"


	22. Commander

It was close to midnight, he estimated, by the height of the moons overhead— Luna, enormous and close as befit midsummer, and Satina, a distant orb behind the silver clouds. Alistair could hear his companion muttering as she composed herself, pushing away Elissa Cousland to be the impassive, practical Warden. He fancied it was like slipping on a mask, though he'd never been able to do that himself. His emotions, lately, rode too close to the surface, bubbling up at the slightest provocation, especially in the presence of magic.

Elissa's eyes and nose lingered cherry red after she quieted; the set of her face was stormy as she yanked on the ring-pull of the enormous exterior door. Alistair expected one, maybe two sleepy sentries to be minding their posts in the entrance hall. This was not the scene that greeted them: his jaw went slack as he took in the sight of two dozen men and women in massive plate armor, the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on their chest pieces, nervously milling about the crowded hall.

"What in the Void?" mouthed Elissa, easing the door shut behind them as quietly as possible. Whether this mattered or not, he could not tell, for no one seemed to take notice of the two interlopers. He could see the breath huff from Lissa's lips as white mist, crystallizing before their eyes. The air inside the hall was frosty with dispelling wards, as if all of Kinloch's Templars were casting in unison.

"A Templar slumber party, and I've forgotten to pack my pajamas," he whispered back, deadpan. They laughed together; he became keenly aware of the lump in his throat.

His eyes were drawn to a girl, who couldn't be a month past her vows, twisting and contorting her fingers until they glowed lyrium-blue. Beside her, her companion mindlessly recited a familiar prayer from the Chant, gripping vials of potion in his gauntleted hand: "Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me." His lips and teeth were chattering, stained with deep blue, like a child left unattended in a blueberry patch.

Rote memorization compelled him to finish the stanza. ' _In the long hours of the night, when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains._ ' The scene was actually rather surreal: against the far wall, a quartermaster had set up shop, surrounded by heaps of sunburst-branded crates, meant for the Templar storeroom. At his feet, injured men lay moaning on rolled out carpets. An elderly sister wearing a rose and gold habit crouched between them, trembling with the exertion, dabbing warmth balm on their blistered flesh to ease the pain. One among them was so badly burned that he had perished unnoticed; his swollen tongue protruded between charred lips. His face, still uncovered, stared sightlessly up to the grand, rib-vaulted ceiling.

"I don't see a single mage," Elissa observed. "All those wounded… Shouldn't they be down here, healing? Or are the mages not allowed to use magic within the tower?"

"I don't think those men were injured by genlocks, Lis."

"Didn't say that, did I? They're frightened." Her eyes narrowed. "And so are you." Gooseflesh was rising on her neck, prickling up white and frantic; she was finally aware of the same danger he'd sensed since they'd arrived.

"Me? Never! I'm just nurturing a healthy sense of self-preservation. I mean, where there are barbecued Templars, there are usually angry mages close by."

"The mages did this?"

"It's a safe bet, but... See there, the important-looking fellow in the middle, dictating orders? That will be the Knight-Commander. He'll have your answers."

She stiffened. "If this Circle is in open rebellion, Redcliffe will be lost." Alistair placed a hand in the small of her back, below her pack. He could feel the hardness of the muscle under the cloth armor, the lines of her body tense and still, like a snake coiling to spring. "Morrigan will die. Connor will die. We can call upon the Circle in Jainen for the Blight, but Alfstanna's lands are so far away… It must be here, and now."

"I know." Across the hall, two acolytes lowered an enormous drop bar across the interior door, settling it in its brackets. "Look, the door is barred. Are they keeping people out? Or in? Best I knew, that is meant to be purely ceremonial. No one ever actually, literally _locks_ the mages inside their tower! Something is seriously wrong here."

"Let's find out what, shall we?" she said, with more bravado than she felt. Elissa plastered on the cold-eyed smile he associated with her noble upbringing, and strode toward the center of the room. Alistair, fighting the chill in his bones, touched his mother's amulet under his gambeson, for luck.

Knight-Commander Greagoir towered over his men, tall for a human, but wiry under his bulky armor. In his younger days he had probably been quite strong, but decades behind a desk, administering to the needs of his charges, had bent a slight stoop into his back. Like many of his station, stress and chronic lyrium use had turned his hair prematurely gray, but there were none of the tell-tale tremors in his hands to suggest nerve degeneration. He was still impressive, quietly intimidating, with a handsome face and close-trimmed beard. "And now, we pray," he muttered audibly, to himself.

"Greagoir, I presume?" interrupted Elissa without preamble, ignoring the man's titles.

"What now?" He made a noise of disgust. "I explicitly told Carroll not to bring anyone across the lake."

"Oh, your man does his job, I'm sure. We arrived by our own power."

"We are dealing with a very delicate situation. You must leave immediately, for your own safety. Who are you?"

"I am Acting Warden-Commander Elissa, and this is Warden Alistair."

' _Acting Warden-Commander?'_ thought Alistair, amused in spite of himself. ' _Since when?'_

The older man's gaze flicked up and down. Instinctively, Alistair stood a little straighter. Elissa shifted her weight to one hip, unimpressed by his scrutiny. "Of course you are," Greagoir sneered. "No one else would wear armor that blue."

"You're one to talk. That's a nice skirt," she replied lazily. Alistair flinched. Inevitably, he was a product of his years in the monastery. No one poked fun at the uniform— _twice_. That had been a lesson hard-learned through days of scrubbing floors.

But the older man actually cracked a smile. "Military brat?"

"Ser, yes, ser. My father served under Bann Fearchar in the war." A half-truth, a safe answer. Elissa was a cool liar, as long as she played roles close to herself. Among real commoners, her clipped northern accent and haughty syllables would give her away at least as a wealthy merchant's daughter, if not an aristocrat. (Leliana said that native accents were the hardest to train out, though they often practiced to pass the time- Leliana to sound less Orlesian, Elissa to make her class more ambiguous.)

"I knew I recognized that particular shade of brashness. Only a child who has grown up under the thumb of authority seeks to flaunt it so." That sounded oddly like a compliment. "I'm used to getting grief from the mages, but I suppose the Wardens actually encourage it. Wait, did you say you are the acting commander? Where is old Duncan?"

"Ostagar," Alistair blurted.

The shift in his face revealed the man's exhaustion, and the lines of tension across his face. Familiar. It was the same look he'd seen on Teagan, on Murdock, on the refugees in Lothering— grim hopelessness. "Ah," he said, after a long pause. "I hadn't heard. My condolences. He was here last four months ago, recruiting, as always. I am weary of the Grey Wardens' ceaseless need for more men to fight the darkspawn, though it is their right. But I respected Duncan, so I'll tell you now what I told him then: we haven't the manpower to spare. There were not enough templars to safeguard this tower."

"But the Grey Wardens have a treaty with the Circle."

"Damn the treaty!" Greagoir groaned.

"I'm not asking you, ser, I'm telling you. I will speak to the First Enchanter myself. We tried writing the Tower directly, of course, but no one answered the ravens."

"Even if the Archdemon itself was flapping its great wings outside my gate, I could not help you now."

"Not even to protect your neighbors? Redcliffe is—"

"Redcliffe?" he interrupted. "I am sorry, but you must tell Arlessa Guerrin that nothing more can be done for the Arl. Irving sent her several competent healers, and they all agree that there is nothing more to be done for him."

"No," she argued earnestly, "The village has been beset by foul magic. A demon holds the arl's castle. The dead rise against the living. They need healers, yes, but I should think that your Templars would… If you had even bothered to read _one_ of my missives, you would know!"

Greagoir touched the crease growing between his eyebrows. Another headache. "A demon in Redcliffe! Your letters, Warden, went unanswered because the ravens come to the steward. And my steward is dead."

The cold took hold in Alistair's veins, as he read the Knight-Commander's expression. "It's the same here, isn't it? There are demons in the tower. I can feel it."

The gray-bearded man turned to him, surprised. "You are a templar?"

"Formerly an elect, Ser Greagoir. Duncan conscripted me eight months ago."

"A pity. You have a knack, a keen sense for magic. You're wasted on the Wardens." He seemed moderately peeved that Duncan had managed to enlist a templar after all.

Alistair frowned. "I don't know, ser, it has been useful for fighting darkspawn."

"Quite. Well, if you need more lyrium, the Quartermaster will give you some, for free, if you tell him I ordered it. If there is any left… Waiting is making the lads anxious."

"Waiting?" pressed Elissa. "Why bar the door? Why not take back the tower?"

"We tried," Greagoir grimly answered. "I shall speak plainly— the tower is no longer under our control. After the evacuation, fifteen volunteered to clear the first floor dormitories. Four came back, scorched by fire. One more trailed after them, physically intact, but gibbering like a madman, dragging the body of his brother. The rest were lost. The tower is overrun."

"And the mages?"

"Dead, or worse, possessed," he sighed. "Understand, Warden, that it has been the better part of five days, now."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I was holding an orientation for my new acolytes, in my chambers on the fourth floor. They are fresh graduates, and were only assigned to my service last week. Outside my door, we heard a commotion, and I saw mages and templars alike battling abominations and demons! Capable men and women, all, but they were still mowed down like chaff before the scythe. I knew my men had no hope of overcoming such a maelstrom, and I ordered them to flee." He lowered his eyes at the memory. "I went looking for Wynne— pardon me, the Senior Enchantress. I could not find her. Nor could I locate the First Enchanter, or indeed any of the council." Greagoir was pained by his failure; his fists balled up as he spoke. "They took us by surprise. We were prepared for one or two abominations- not the horde that fell upon us."

"That sounds horrible," said Elissa. Her eyes flickered with sympathy, but she would not be pulled from her task. "What will be done now?"

"I would destroy the tower, raze it to the ground, but I cannot risk more of my men. The doors remain shut and their wards will protect us for now."

"But Knight-Commander, if you could not find the magi leadership, perhaps there are survivors? You could mount a rescue with the remaining templars you have here."

"I will not ask more men to dash themselves against the rocks! That sacrifice has already been made. It is too painful to hope for survivors and find… nothing." He finished softly, evidently speaking from experience. "I have sent to the Grand Cleric in Denerim, for reinforcements and the Rite of Annulment."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The mages in the tower are probably already dead," Alistair explained, choosing his words carefully. "Any abominations remaining in there must be dealt with, no matter what."

"The Rite of Annulment gives my templars the authority to neutralize the Circle, completely." Greagoir gestured firmly.

Apparently, she was not prepared to recognize that authority. "By _neutralize_ , you mean wholesale slaughter. Yes, Alistair, I can read between the euphemisms. What of the innocents you left behind? What of the _children_?"

"I do not care for it any more than you do, Warden. It's not just mages in the tower, but templars too. You say you have battled with one demon in Redcliffe. What would you do before a legion? This situation is dire. Everything in the tower must be destroyed, so that it may be made safe again."

"You would use a hammer, when you need a knife," she insisted. "A small group is just as effective in close quarters as an army. I have enough invisibility powder in my pack to keep a few men in stealth long enough to sweep— what is this, four floors?"

"Five above ground, and more below."

"Five floors, then. Don't engage your enemy, evade them! Even if we could recover only one living mage, that would be one more to help you win back your trapped templars."

"Wait a minute, Lis, are you suggesting _we_ go in there? As in, the two of us?" Alistair asked. "That's suicide."

"Not up for the challenge?" she prodded, eyes glittering.

Alistair rubbed his shoulder, self-consciously. "Of course I'm coming! I can't very well let you go in by yourself. It's just that pesky sense of self-preservation acting up."

"Warden, I cannot lend you any templars, other than the one you have already. Nor can I open the door to just any mage. Bring back Irving, the First Enchanter. Only at his word will I believe the Circle can be salvaged. If Irving is dead, I will use the Rite."

The wheels in her head were turning, and Maker help him, but that woman never backed down from a fight when her dander was up. It was ludicrous to imagine the two of them against a whole tower full of abominations, even if they had been equipped with weapons of aurum and master-grade dispel enchantments. They were hardly in peak fighting form— her healing injuries limited the range of motion in her arms, and his head was... Well, he might manage one holy smite without rending his skull in twain, but not two.

Elissa glanced to him; her gaze was smouldering, liquid smoke. Alistair felt peculiar, imagining he was standing on a sandy beach as the foamy tide poured in, then dragged him out to a fathomless green sea. He exhaled in a long rush. Smiling faintly, Lis nodded, reading something like agreement on his face. Alistair offered her a shrug in return, superficially careless even as his blood roiled in anticipation. Her mouth, he noticed, was slightly pink, scuffed by his kisses in the cabin. Heat flashed up the back of his neck when he realized he was aroused. ' _Maker's breath, of all the times and places...'_ he thought, shifting his weight to the opposite leg. _'I'd follow that woman anywhere, even if I'm damned for it.'_

Elissa was agreeing, and sticking out her hand to Greagoir to shake. "Deal. I will need some of your lyrium, and as much fresh water as we can carry."

* * *

' _All Circles have doors like these,'_ he thought absently as the intricate steel slab, with its pointed archway and embossed swirls, closed behind them. It was meant to be a comforting thought, but he only felt the icy chill of the dispel wards, a deep down cold in the marrow of his bones. Elissa, at least, was unaffected. Against an ordinary person, a templar was just another man with a sword in clunky armor. And they were just two Wardens in their medium-weight blues, against...

Something. There would be something in this tower. He could sense oily, slippery, dark magic, in overwhelming quantity. No wonder the young templars had been overwrought.

Alistair's first impression was that it was eerily quiet, too still, like the air inside a tomb. The faint commotion behind the door faded away to nothing as the spell took hold. The Veil rippled, thin and sagging, like standing inside an enormous mausoleum, like one of Nevarra's famous Cities of the Dead. Before them, three bodies, a portion of the missing nine templars, who had volunteered to retake the tower. Only a few yards away from safety, but unclaimed, left on the floor. Not a terribly helpful omen— they smelled distinctly like roast pork. Bile in his throat as a new feeling swallowed him, cloying, trapping— claustrophobia? Unbidden, unwanted flashes to the pinnacle of Ishal swarmed like gnats in his ears-

_"You've got a better plan?"_

_"I can think of a few."_

All of a sudden, the crippling silence was broken, by a low, sweet melody. Elissa had begun to hum, first soft and shaky, and then as it became louder, more confident, it smoothed into a song. Alistair did not recognize it, but that did not matter. What mattered was that he could breathe again. From around the curved corridor, slithered the first of the rage demons, radiating fire from its twisted body. Alistair tamped down on the fear in his gut, and drew his sword.


	23. Mages

As far as plans went, Alistair ranked this one somewhere between taking on a castle full of the undead and taking on a tower full of darkspawn. "I can't believe we're actually doing this," Alistair chuckled grimly, stepping away from yet another pile of ash.

"Neither can I." Elissa crouched over the corpse of a fallen templar. This one had been torn in half at the waist by massive claws. "I mostly bluff my way through these things, you know. I don't suppose you'd understand, but—" She pulled away the helmet, revealing an intact face. Pale and soot-stained, but unblemished by the fire which had roasted his comrades. Long hair tumbled loose onto the floor, a fan of gold. "Did you know him?" His eyes were closed, a cruel mimicry of sleep.

"No," Alistair said reflexively, then corrected himself. "Yes, I mean. Not well, but... That's Rolf, of… Um. I can't remember where he was from, actually. He was younger than me. A good lad, as far as I knew." His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Most of the Kinloch templars will be. Studious, devout. That is to say, not like me, or at least, how I was in the monastery. Like I said, Knight-Commander Greagoir has a type. This is a school, so he liked to pick the ones who thrived in school."

Her face was clouded; she pulled herself up by the ladder attached to the bunk-bed. The apprentice dormitories were crowded, overcrowded actually, with furniture and trunks assigned to young mages, studying to pass their Harrowing. "Say something for him," she said, and her voice had an edge to it, somewhere between anger and tears.

"What should I say?"

"I don't know. I don't know the words!" she answered with frustration. "Please, Alistair."

He took a breath and intoned, not quite trusting himself to sing it, "I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

A moment of breathless silence lingered between them. Elissa looked at him strangely, so intense that Alistair turned away with color on his cheeks. "Shit." Her hand dropped slack to her side, and she licked her lips.

"I know. The Canticle of Trials… Someone was chanting it back where we came in. I can't get it out of my head."

They passed a bunk which had a collection of small stuffed animals. They were finely crafted, nugs with glass eyes and big soft ears, sewn out of pink and brown velveteen. The kind wealthy parents bought from the toy shop in Denerim. On the cot above was a ratty, well loved receiving blanket. "These aren't just children," she muttered, "they're little kids. How young do they take them?" The words stuck thickly in his mouth, and he could not bring himself to answer her. When the magic showed. Whenever the magic showed. Most had their first explosion of accidental magic on the cusp of puberty, but some showed as young as toddlerhood— mostly the children of mages, already scrutinized in Chantry orphanages. These were the sort sent to Kinloch, Alistair did not say. Lissa's lips were bloodless, her cheeks ashen. "There will be bodies. I think— I thought— Why did I think it would be mostly adults? I can't—"

"Let me take point," Alistair instructed. ' _I won't let you see them,'_ he thought, nauseated but bolstered by the idea that he could protect her from this one thing. He placed himself before her, and she let him be her shield. Alistair guided Elissa away from the next chamber, where a ring of smoking templar bodies still guarded a cluster of tiny corpses, numbering five or so. The Veil wobbled and strained with the emotion in their deaths, echoing the screams. It was a relief when the bulges gave way to demons, if only that it gave them something to _do_ , a productive outlet for the rage inside him.

Something or someone had done this, deliberately. The Veil did not sunder by random chance, even in places like this, where it was bent over and over like a folded piece of paper, fragile to tearing at the sharp edge. Someone had pulled at the corners until it ripped. The templars had failed. The Circle Tower was lost.

The Wardens abandoned the apprentice dormitories, no longer pausing to identify the fallen. She was still fragile, too, Alistair recognized. Under the mask of indifference she was folded up too many times, torn by Highever, torn by Ostagar, torn by Redcliffe, waiting for one good pull to sever her into pieces.

Then at last, they found survivors. It happened like this:

A mage, whirling her staff, cast Winter's Grasp and shattered a very large rage demon. She turned on the two intruders, frost coating her fingertips and licking her weapon, ready to strike them as well. Alistair lifted his shield, preparing to deflect her spells long enough to summon the one smite he could manage without taking lyrium.

Elissa stepped around his defensive position and lifted her hands. Cheerfully, she called out, "Hello, again."

"It's you!" said the mage, sounding surprised, but in the same breath rapidly continued, "No... come no further! Grey Warden or no, I will strike you down where you stand!"

"Maker's breath, Wynne," Lis grumbled, nervously taking a step backward. "Didn't know I made that bad of a first impression." She quickly scanned the room— a handful of young mages, men and women in rumpled circle robes, protectively clustered around a score of glassy-eyed children. There was a stench in the room, of an overflowing slop bucket, positioned in a semi-private corner.

Their apparent leader was the only one armed with a staff, not that that necessarily mattered. She was an older woman, with the delicate bone structure of a former great beauty. However she had looked in her younger years, wrinkles now gathered in the corners of her face, and the shock of hair piled up on the top of her head in an elegant knot was snowy white. She wore the yellow battlemage robes of the Fereldan regulars, the King's army. A veteran of Ostagar, then.

"Why are you here?" demanded the one called Wynne, still on the edge of attack. Her expression was severe, bordering on ferocious, reminding him of the terrible fury of a reverend mother and yet— Alistair felt a little awestruck. "The templars would not let just anyone by."

Elissa spoke slowly, as though soothing a wounded mabari. "I understand your need to exercise caution." She adjusted herself, turned to address the room at large. "My name is Warden Elissa, and my friend here is Warden Alistair. I know you've been trapped here for nearly a week. We have a little food and fresh water in our packs. Do you have wounded? Will you let me help you?"

The older woman relaxed by a degree, letting the base of her staff rest against the floor, though her guard was still up. "Warden, we have heard nothing for over five days. You must tell me, do the Templars intend to attack the tower? Do they have the Rite?"

"Travel in the Bannorn has been slowed by the civil war, but… they have sent for it."

Frightened murmurs broke out between the adult mages, dismayed by her news. Wynne shouldered her staff. "So Greagoir thinks the Circle is beyond hope. He probably assumes I—" she corrected herself, "—we are all dead. They abandoned us to our fate-"

"No!" Alistair interjected. He put away his shield as he explained. "I mean, er, sorry. Greagoir tried to come for you. Assuming you're Senior Enchanter Wynne, and not some other Wynne. The templars were overrun trying to clear the dormitories. Greagoir doesn't have enough forces left to storm a tea party, much less this tower."

"But serah, pardon me, but I can't help but notice you both made it through just fine," responded a new voice, a female one with a distinctive Marcher accent. Alistair turned to the sound, but not before catching Wynne's puzzled expression in the corner of his eye. The woman sat apart from the others, legs tucked under her long skirt, with her hands placidly in her lap. No, wrong, not there willingly, even in the flickering light he should have immediately seen she was handcuffed. A prisoner? A danger?

"Wardens are shock troops," he answered warily. "We're more capable of quick, tactical strikes. Also, we ran most of the way."

The prisoner smiled— no, winced. The more he looked at her, the more familiar she seemed to be. A cloud of dark hair, deep brown or perhaps black hair, partially obscured her face. Her warm olive skin contrasted against the cooler tones of the expensive blue-violet robes she wore, not the usual issue, but more likely purchased by moneyed family. But they were filthy, and wrinkled, more soiled even than the garb of her fellow mages. The prominent, regal shape of her nose almost made her pass for a Tevinter, if not for the accent… Alistair pushed his distraction aside.

Elissa apparently saw something totally different when she studied the stranger. His red-headed compatriot fell beside her, dumping her pack on the floor. "Ach, how long have you been wearing these?" Lissa hissed in anger and sympathy as she took the other's hands into her own. The silk brocade of her sleeves fell back to reveal purple, festering flesh around the cuffed skin. "Why didn't anyone take them off?"

"They have been off and on again for the past few weeks," admitted the mage reluctantly, mouth twisting in pain. "These are magic-tamping. No one could just spell them off."

"So when the Circle fell… I see. Alistair, quickly, my picks are in my pack."

"You should have told me you were hurting," reproached Wynne. It was not said with kindness, but more like embarrassment for being caught out.

"But you have been so busy, Wynne." Her voice was chilly, though underneath there was a reservoir of simmering anger. "I did not want to trouble you."

Wynne flushed. "I take my oath as a healer very seriously, no matter who needs my assistance."

"Why would the templars leave you bound for weeks?" Alistair asked, a bad taste filling his mouth. His hand closed around the set of lockpicks deep inside the pack, recognizing their rough felt pouch by touch. He wasn't sure what he wanted to believe. If she had deserved her punishment, then freeing her could be dangerous. If she hadn't, then the templars in Kinloch were not what he thought they were.

"It's a long story." Her gaze flickered to her nearest fellows, daring them to contradict her. They busied themselves examining the floor.

"We don't have time for long stories," Elissa advised, studying the mechanism of the cuffs. They were runed with lyrium, but the lock was mechanical, and hopefully not beyond her picking ability. "How about a name, darling?" she murmured gently, then turned to take the lockpicks from his outstretched hand. "It helps to start there." Louder, she requested, "Alistair, I'll need the distillate of witch hazel and elfroot next. That's the brown glass bottle."

The mage seemed uncomfortable with Elissa's casual familiarity. She answered stiffly, "I am Enchanter Solona."

"What is that accent, Kirkwall?"

"Yes."

Kirkwall, then, that explained the first mystery. Her Tevinter coloring could come from the old Imperials. It didn't explain, however, why she looked so damned familiar to him. Why was that? "You're very young to be an Enchanter," Alistair commented, rummaging for the potion and bandages.

"The youngest in this Circle, but admittedly I began teaching immediately after my Harrowing."

"Irving's pet," supplied a ginger girl in garish orange robes. A pleasant smile took the sting out of the jab. "Sorry, that's what everyone says. I'm Petra, one of the child-minders. Daria and I were responsible for the littlest ones, but Daria is gone." She gestured helplessly. "Ever since Kinnon rescued Solona from the dungeons, I've been helping her with—" Petra stopped, flushing pink to the tips of her ears. "Her hands are bound, you see."

"Are these all the children?" Elissa pursed her lips, concentrating, and was finally rewarded with a soft _click_ as the cuffs came away.

"No. A few were laid up sick with mabari pox, and stayed in the dorms with Dee, the tranquil nursemaid." Petra closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, they were full of pain. "We were leading a class from the apprentice quarters to the library— that's right beyond that door—" She indicated to the shimmering blue seal, a massive barrier spell. "...when I heard screaming. I tried to hold the children back but they got excited, and pushed forward against me. That's when a demon came 'round the corner. It's eyes were afire with evil… I was certain it was my death come upon me." Tears spilled carelessly down her cheeks. "I froze. I think I might have screamed. Daria threw up a barrier over the children in the front of the line, and it struck her down with one blow. I couldn't think what to do! thought I was sure to be next, couldn't think of a single useful spell. And then Wynne was there, in front of me, shielding all of us. It was light and fire, blood and chaos… When it was over, the demon was dead, but Wynne wasn't moving either. I was so afraid she was… gone. As I moved to help her, she stirred, and coughed. I don't know what I would have done if it wasn't for her. We'd all be… dead." She spoke the word with deep discomfort.

Lissa's carefully finished bandaging Solona's second wrist, industrious through the whole wretched tale. Alistair did not need to see her face to know that it affected her— even if she had kept the emotion from her features, she could not manage to disguise her trembling shoulders, or the hammer of her pulse in her throat.

If they had ever hoped to learn the secrets of the Joining ritual from Uldred, that plan was immediately cast aside in favor of finding the miserable bastard, for it was apparently he who started all of this. The oldest mage, Wynne, was privy to the fact that Uldred intended to rebel against the Circle, with Loghain's blessing. Though as she herself had just arrived from the recovery effort at Ostagar, she had missed the council meeting. The gist was: senior mages went in, abominations came out.

"Greagoir said he'd only let survivors out if we can bring him Irving, alive," explained Elissa, scowling. "Never mind the fact that twenty of them are children, Petra is not competent to defend herself, Kinnon is an apprentice, Keili is… whatever she is." She spared a soft glance for the girl, whose fragile mind had come undone by what she had witnessed.

" _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones_ ," Keili moaned into her fists, rocking back and forth on her knees before the candles. Alistair watched her with unease, thinking that it would only be a matter of time before she attracted a demon of her own.

Damn Greagoir for abandoning the children. Elissa had that haunted look in her eye she got when she was reminded of her murdered nephew. Flinching, bitter, helpless rage… Alistair thought it beyond his power to ever ease that burden, but if the Maker gave him the chance, he would take it from her forever.

"If Irving is alive, Maker willing, he will be above us," said Wynne. "It will be a long, hard fight. You will need a healer."

"I'm coming, too," added Solona, straightening the cuffs of her robe so they covered her bandages. Alistair understood why— the position of her injuries would scream 'blood mage' to any templars they came across. "Wynne can support, but I think you'll need some offensive spells."

"Are you combat trained?" he asked, thinking perhaps that was where he knew her. That nagging, prickling feeling on the back of his neck, like he'd forgotten something important. Maybe she'd been at Ostagar too?

"I am an instructor in the Primal School." As if to confirm to herself she could still cast after being dampened for such a long period, she summoned a small blue flame in the palm of her left hand. "If you need more thorough credentials, I am also passable with a sword and tolerable with a quarterstaff." For the first time, he saw her smile— it was a glittering, angry smile. "My nobleman father promised me to the Templars after my mother left us. I was fourteen when I lit my bed on fire in the girl's dormitory. They transferred me to Ferelden because the Circles in the Marches were full up with my siblings." Solona doused the flame, closing her fist. "There were people I cared about in this tower. So yes, Wardens, I will fight."

Suddenly, he knew her. She had been in that dream, that alcohol-fueled nightmare that he could never properly remember or completely forget.

* * *

_"We are the Future," said the Last, a brown-skinned prisoner in chains, who, bizarrely, walked like an empress. No slave was she. She looked upon him with pity, like he was just a grain upon the sand, and spoke like a prophetess. Of this one he was most alarmed, more than Death, for her face seemed to swim and change before him from kind to cruel, the kind of demon who would bring a king to crawling on his belly like a worm._

_"What do you want of me?" he questioned._

_"Are you afraid?"_

_"Yes," he answered, honestly._

_"As you should be," agreed the Last. "Only a fool would turn his gaze upon us."_

* * *

"I remember now," said Alistair, rising to his feet, feeling oddly weightless. The garden had blurred, fallen silent again, muffled by the green mist of the true Fade.

"The fountain," said Lissa in a shaky voice, reaching out for him, but then stopping herself. He could see her again, but she was translucent, like a memory half-forgotten. "Get to the fountain. It's over the crest of the hill. Touch the center of the bowl and let it take you to the demon's lair. Wynne and Solona are waiting for you there. You'll have to do it without me."

"Why? Why aren't you coming with me?" he demanded.

Elissa swallowed, her throat working to speak. "Niall said… It's been too long. I spent too much time trying to get through to you. The sloth demon feeds off living dreamers to power his illusions. He was using my mage friend, Niall, but I think he's gone now. My body… If you can, please take me to my family crypt in Highever."

Cold, icy dread washed over him. Alistair grappled for her but his hands passed straight through, like trying to hold the mist. "Maker's breath, Lissa. You're not allowed to die. I won't allow it!"

"Command me to live," she said faintly, eyes blank and serene. "I will try to hold out, to buy you three time to get out. Maybe there's a chance. Hurry, Alistair, and know that I love you."


	24. Bound

It washed over him in fragments, blurry flashes, like trying to recall a dream from the bog in his head in the morning, before full consciousness took over and smoothed the rumpled edges away. Alistair had heard it said that to remember a dream, one had to remember it right upon waking, and perhaps this was true. So for that first moment, he took shallow breaths through his mouth, and tried to commit the whole sequence of events to memory. The air in the tower was unexpectedly cold, whistling through his teeth with a sting, with the hint of something putrid on his tongue which suggested should he inhale through his nose, he would be bombarded by the stench of black ichor.

A loud, throbbing, insistent part of himself listened for the cry of a baby which would never come again. The names of his children were slipping through his fingers like the pale light streaming through the dirty windowpane, and now when he pictured them he saw them for what they were: blood-amber wraiths, floating faceless and blurred in the garden of his bitter imagination. But the voices, the voices, Alistair kept waiting to hear the familiar voices. Yearning… He pushed down his feelings, forcing himself to remember what came after. He could feel at luxury, but the memories of the Fade were fragile-

* * *

_His hand plunged into the shallow basin of liquid, an opaque silver-blue fluid, and groped for something in the center. A knob, a switch? His fingertips mapped the concave ridges of stone beneath the surface, slick and uniform like the pattern on a seashell, searching for a place where something was different. Frustrated by the fruitless search, he jerked his hand back, swearing softly. How was this supposed to work? Alistair watched intently as the ripples settled into something like… stars? It wasn't any constellation he knew, sort of a wheel shape, spokes around a center point. But no, that wasn't quite it either. One star was set apart from the others, above. It was a scepter. (Or perhaps, he mused, a bone-in ham hanging from the butcher's window.)_

_Elissa had said something, something about magic. The song of raw lyrium, entwined between her pale fingers… "Well, I don't have any lyrium," he muttered to himself. "This is the Ylenn Basin, not the Deep Roads. Or the Fade version of… Maker's breath." It occurred to him then that he'd never actually been to Ylenn, or even to Orlais. Ten years of false memories prickled behind his eyes, demanding to be acknowledged, but he turned away from them. He knew every tree in the lemon grove, every patched shingle on the roof of his cottage, every sleepy sound of his— dreams. A prison with a willing occupant. Ylenn came from a book, maybe, something he'd read in a dusty library. A fantasy he'd never known he harbored. Beyond the wild walnut trees, beyond the grove— nothingness. He'd never had need to stray beyond the boundaries. He'd never noticed the compulsion to stay._

_She was counting on him now. Elissa. Ten years of sweet smiles. FALSE. Ten years of marriage. FALSE. But some her (the real her?) was in danger. Alistair stretched his hand out over the font once more, warring with himself. He had to do the thing he swore he would never, ever do again, not since that first first flicker of light from the tip of his finger lit up the dark hayloft. He had been nine, old enough to know what happened to boys with magic. Had tried to snuff it, bury the light back down inside, but when his fear only intensified the spell, he had wildly considered chopping off his traitorous fingertip. Of course, in hindsight, if he'd known where to steal a blade that night, well, just as likely as not he would have accidentally tapped into blood magic. The thought sent an old shiver down his spine. What if? What if?_

_The Templars had taught him how to contain it, restrain it, smother it, even if they had not known they were doing it. Alistair read every arcane book they would let students access, but never borrowed them out, preferring not to record his name on the card. He copied out every litany which suppressed magic, speaking the words to himself while the other boys in his dormitory said their prayers. Adralla of Vyrantium had quite a lot of practical advice in her tomes. If the Litany of Adralla would have kept his magic quiet, he would have used that, too. During the day, he strove to be perfectly average— top of his year in swordsmanship, but with abysmal marks in the classroom. The cheerful, lazy one in the back of the class, oft punished for with scullery duty. Those hardly bothered him. But he dreaded the day he would be expected to take lyrium, and what it would reveal in him._

_Duncan had rescued him. Only once had he offered the cobalt blue potions, and after, never questioned his rejection. Duncan never minded if Alistair's Holy Smite sometimes appeared to rebound against him when they encountered a darkspawn emissary, leaving him vomiting on his knees. He never asked him to nullify the magic around them, because magi were welcome in the Grey Wardens. He never asked him to be a templar, only a Warden._

_But Alistair **was** a templar. Or part of him was, at least. "I'm not a mage," he reassured himself, hollow, as he **pushed out** with his mana, felt it uncurl like a fragile blossom. Tears licked down his cheeks; he was horrified by the relief he felt, like he'd been holding his breath for twelve years. The magic did not flow so much as skitter, jolting and confused after so long. Alistair was surprised to see lightning spark between his fingers, rather than the relatively benign spirit magic of his childhood. "Andraste preserve me," he prayed, letting the electricity make contact with the center of the basin._

_Pain speared his arm. There was a sensation not dissimilar to being yanked inside out, and when the blackness cleared from his vision, he was standing in a barren place, the Fade without dreamers, surrounded on all sides by slick red stone. Two women manifested beside him—Wynne and Solona— but third expected never came._

* * *

"It was a Sloth Demon," he muttered against the stone floor. His muscles trembled as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. It felt like his bones had been turned to jelly, and he winced, blinking sticky eyes. A fleeting part of him wanted to close his eyes and rest. The rest of him wondered if he would ever be comfortable going to sleep ever again. Another worry for later.

"And a high one," agreed Wynne, who was already up and working a barrier spell across the the ingress points of the round room. The white haired mage seemed to be ignoring her own experiences in the Fade, her face serene with concentration as she used the palm of both hands to shape enormous runes in the air. A soft, snowy aura of magic enveloped her while she worked to secure the room.

Solona, by counterpoint, was thoroughly unsettled, fixing him with a bug-eyed look which he knew mirrored his own. She sat cross-legged on the floor, with Alistair's backpack ensconced in the folds of her skirt. She opened her mouth and shut it abruptly, losing the will to speak.

"What? Something on my face?" he prompted.

"Er. What was your…?" Solona dug down to the bottom to retrieve a teardrop-shaped skin of water. "Maker's breath, I'm thirsty." She swallowed three mouthfuls, choked on the fourth, and coughed violently to clear her lungs. "Umpf…" Water dribbled from her chin, which she wiped away with her sleeve. This action left a clean streak of skin behind, reminding him that they were both dappled with ichor, soot, and blood.

He watched her actions with faint amusement, despite himself. It was nice to know she was a human under those imposing black eyebrows and stern manners. "What was yours?" he returned, slowly. Alistair suddenly wished to keep his experience in the Fade private. He was a little embarrassed, truth be told, but nevertheless it was his memory to keep.

Solona frowned. "A nightmare," she said vaguely, lowering her eyes.

"Me too," he lied. Better to be safe than sorry.

"I think it's safe to say we all experienced our worst nightmares while prisoners in the Fade," voiced Wynne, concluding her spell with a flourish. "How do you feel?"

Alistair quickly took stock of his body. His tongue was thick and dry in his mouth. There was a cramp between his shoulders, from the way he had slept on the stone floor. The worst was a stinging bruise on his elbow from the fall. Nothing he couldn't live with. Tentatively, he slid his fingers to his scalp, preparing to probe under the bandages, but found that the linen wrapping was gone. "Did you do this?" The bone was mended, and the scabbed flesh smoothed over into a dimpled scar, as though the wound was some childhood accident years forgotten. Painless. The pounding headache was gone, and in its place cool relief.

"Yes. Forgive me if I overstepped, but it was an obvious injury, and I do find it easiest to repair when the patient is lying still."

"Wow. I mean, it's amazing. I've never… You're a spirit healer. They're so rare, I've never met one. I'm— Sorry. Thank you," he flushed, feeling the warm glow rise on his cheeks.

"You are welcome. Any time," Wynne clucked.

"Lissa has this cut on her shoulder that could really use a proper seeing to, I'm sure she'd appreciate your…" Alistair stopped. His head jerked from side to side as he searched the room, puzzled, but with an unmistakable growing sense of dread. "Where is she?"

"Warden, I am sorry." Wynne's voice was genuinely sad. She stepped away from him, robes swishing, to afford him a clear view of the other side of the room.

"No! Don't you say that. We killed Sloth. We killed it in time!" Somehow he was up on his hands and knees, too shaky to stand with all the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Beyond caring if he looked undignified, he crawled forward.

A body in blue was still on the ground. From the bloody drag marks on the stones, it had been pulled away from the swollen remains of the felled abominations, and the gray corpse of a middle aged man in robes. The mage would be Niall, the first among them to be drained of life to power Sloth's spell.

"I healed her body," Wynne explained, but her voice was muffled by the white roaring in his ears. "But it is beyond my skills to fix the mind."

Alistair pulled her limp form into his lap, cradling her lolling head in the crook of his bruised arm. "Wake up," he whispered, over the pounding of his heart. Elissa Cousland was pale and dirty, intact but… vacant. Her chest bobbed with each deep breath, as though fast asleep, but there was not a single twitch of her eyelashes. "Wake up." He thumbed open an eye, peeling back the top lid to see a pupil so blown that the black nearly swallowed up her green iris. No reaction to the light. Not a flicker. "Wake up, damn you," he choked, giving her a shake. Then another, harder shake. "Wynne!"

"Your commander is too far gone, Warden. I believe that she sacrificed herself so that we three could escape the Fade."

"No! I won't just leave her behind. Not when she waited for me. Send me back. I want to go back for her."

"Even if we had enough mages, and the lyrium to cast such a spell, there's no guarantee we could even find her. The demon is dead. His prison as we knew it no longer exists. Besides, we would have to send a mage. You could not traverse the Fade."

' _I'm a mage,_ ' he thought, desperately, but even in his moment of crisis could not bring himself to say it aloud. "Elissa did it, and she's not a mage."

"The first to ever do so in recorded history," admitted Solona, moving past Wynne to crouch beside him. "No one would believe the telling. I hardly do, and I witnessed it firsthand."

Flemeth. Flemeth and Morrigan had done this once before. They'd pulled Elissa and Alistair from the Fade after Ostagar, even at the knife edge of death. Surely if two hedge mages could perform such magic, two Circle-trained enchanters could do the same. But how to even suggest such a thing? There was not time to tell the full story. He hardly understood it himself. "There has to be something we can do," he tried, lamely.

"No, Warden."

"Don't call me that!" he snapped at Wynne, giving the woman in his arms a violent shake. Still nothing. A wobbly bubble of desperation pressed in his chest. "That's her title, not mine."

"I am sorry, Alistair. I will do as you ask. Clearly you cared for her very much," the older woman replied, with clenched teeth.

"Solona. Please. Try anything."

The younger mage furrowed her brow, squinting as though she saw something, but couldn't trust her eyes. "I think…" He felt a swell of magic rise like a wall as she sketched a silencing ward with her index finger in an arc around her back. Privacy. It would only be a minute at most before Wynne noticed. "Are you married, Alistair? That's not a come on. I mean specifically, to the Warden?" she asked, under her breath.

He flinched. "No. But yes. In the Fade," Alistair confessed, though to speak it cut him to the quick. "Only in my dream."

"Strange," mused Solona, withholding judgement. "Have you spent much time in the Imperium? This is very reminiscent of their magic."

"What is?"

Solona shifted her broad shoulders. In hindsight, he would realize she was blocking Wynne's view, but in the moment, it was a passing curiosity. "This." With delicate fingers, she plucked at the empty space between their bodies, as though she was playing a harp. Shivers shot down his spine. A long, golden chain manifested out of thin air, draped across her palm; that thread he sometimes thought he saw in the corner of his eye was fully realized, pulsing with soft light. The strand seemed to come from Alistair's breastplate and end at Elissa's, stitching them together.

"What is that?" he asked, in wonder.

"Not sure, but I have a few ideas. I'd love to study it. Where on earth did you get it? I doubt it makes the list of Chantry-approved magicks."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you?" he hedged.

"Fair enough." She actually smiled. "This will probably hurt. Deep breath, Alistair, chin up."

"What ar— arrrgh!" he groaned, caught off guard when she gave the chain a sharp jerk with her glowing fingers. Hot pain lanced his chest, starting in his heart and shooting upwards, finishing behind his ears, so narrow and focused it felt like someone was flaying him alive with wire. "Maker— Andraste— Fuck!"

"I told you it would hurt," Solona said, tense. "Try to be quiet. I have almost no idea what I'm doing, and I'd rather not kill you both."

The light intensified quickly, spilling out in rays around the three huddled figures. Just before he had to shut his eyes against the glare, Alistair saw (rather than heard) Wynne say, "What in Andraste's name are you doing?"

Behind his eyelids everything was pink from the glow. Abruptly, Solona cried in pain, and it went black.

"What happened?" Alistair demanded, a ring of halos in his vision as he opened his eyes.

"Burned myself," the mage grumbled, grimacing while she cast a small frost spell across her injured hand. Her left palm looked like it had been clutching a flaming poker, peppered with nasty blisters in a straight line. "I'll survive. Might not be marking any papers any time soon. You know, I write with this hand!"

"Did it work?" he asked, but had his answer before the words finished leaving his mouth.

"Have I missed something?" Elissa asked in sleepy confusion, then yawned. Alistair whooped, crushing her against him in a tight embrace. "Maker's breath, not in front of the mages!" she complained as he kissed her soundly on the mouth.

Alistair corrected, " _Yes_ , in front of the mages," and kissed her again. His heart was beating fit to burst in his chest, his ears were buzzing, and none of that mattered. Lissa was back. He kissed her, and kissed her, until she melted against him and all was right again.

"What did you do?" interrupted Wynne, relieved to see the Warden living, but angry at her exclusion. "Enchanter Amell, what did you cast?"

"I didn't..." Solona tried to explain.

"Well, you must have done something! You've got burns from an interrupted spell on your casting hand." To punctuate her point, Wynne began to weave a healing net across Solona's scorched palm.

"What's all this?" asked Elissa, turning away from Alistair's mouth.

"They're soulbound!" answered Solona, brown-eyes alight with excitement. "No one does that sort of magic in Ferelden. All I had to do was give a little tug."

"Felt like more than just a little tug," Alistair muttered into Elissa's neck. His skin felt feverishly hot against her cool throat, like if he could just get close enough to her they would have some kind of equilibrium again. Like he needed to crawl inside her. His stomach throbbed with need, imagining throwing her down and ripping off her clothes. Mages be damned, he'd never been so alive.

"Soulbound Grey Wardens? Maker's breath," said a very cross Wynne. "There's a reason that kind of magic is forbidden. It's perverse."

"Hold on, go back, please," Elissa requested, nuzzling Alistair's bristly cheek in spite of her authoritative voice. It seemed that neither could quite control themselves. "You're going to have to explain from the beginning. I know precious little about… mmm... magic."

"Have you crossed paths with a magister, lately?" interrogated Solona. "I don't mean me. I know I favor my Tevene cousins, but—"

"You have family in Tevinter?" Alistair interjected, then blushed at his eagerness.

Solona laughed, warm and low, and stood up, adjusting her sleeves. "I hardly pass for a Southerner. Believe me, you're not the first Fereldan to gawk. Or fancy that I'm really a transferred magister." Alistair smiled nervously into Lissa's hair, embarrassed that she had pegged him so easily. "The Trevelyans have relations in Nevarra and across the Marches, as well as the Imperium."

"Trevelyan? Didn't Wynne call you _Amell_?"

"My mother's family name. Uncle Irving insisted that having two Trevelyans in Kinloch would be inappropriate."

"And it is," Wynne reminded. "You should have been transferred to a different Circle once you passed your Harrowing. It's bad enough that Irving took you as his personal apprentice. And after all that, you still got mixed up with that business with the rogue apprentice, and broke your uncle's heart."

"Maker's sake, don't mother me, Wynne," scowled Solona.

"We met Flemeth," supplied Elissa, to fill the silence which followed the mages' spat. "Yes, that Flemeth, the infamous Witch of the Wilds. She used some of her strange power to save our lives, when the other Wardens were killed in the battle in the south."

"A soulbond to save a life? Unthinkable," scoffed Wynne.

"Immoral," agreed Solona. "Dangerous, and stupid."

"Let's skip to the part where you stop pontificating, and actually explain what you're talking about," sighed Lissa.

Solona shrugged. "Soulbinding is old Imperial magic, scraped together from an even older ritual which belonged to the elves. It was meant to be a marriage rite, before the formation of the Chantry. If one spouse passed, the other would wither and eventually die, to follow them into the Beyond. It was meant to be used for romantic love. But generally, the bind was applied to enforce harmony between an arranged couple, so that neither would try to off the other. You can guess the problems this caused."

"To end an enemy, all you needed was his wife. Good business for the assassin trade," answered Elissa thoughtfully. "Or kidnappers, for that matter. Probably made a few orphans."

"The practice went out of fashion with the wealthy, to be sure. Some magisters discovered that by manipulating the bond, they could extend their own lives. One might siphon years from a young slave, or amplify magic by sharing between two casters. All forbidden rituals now, of course. The book in our library was purely academic, so I'm extrapolating for you a little. Unfortunately, bound souls amplify emotions between the partners. Fear, rage, or lust…"

"Love," said Alistair warily.

"None of which appropriate behavior between two Wardens," Wynne chided primly.

Lissa rebuffed, "I'm sorry, I must have missed the part where you were a Warden authority, Senior Enchanter." Elissa disentangled herself, but held fast to his hand when she helped Alistair stand.

He felt woozy, forced to contemplate the idea that his feelings for her were magical in nature. ' _Not true. I love her because I… because I…?_ '

"Warden, at least concede that the bind is incredibly dangerous in your line of work?"

Now that he knew for sure the magic was there, he could feel the pulse more clearly. _Needfearneedfearwant._ The same thrumming that sent them spiraling into massive arguments at every turn.

"A fair point made, Wynne." Elissa squeezed his fingers, wordlessly reassuring him. "So, how do we break it?"


	25. Captive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has a brief mention of suicide

In the antechamber glowed a pulsating bubble of light, like one of Wynne's barrier spells, but cast with darker magicks. The glow blurred the figure beyond it, crouched— no, kneeled— on the bloody floor. Another trap?

"It's a templar! He... he's still alive, I think! We must help him!" said Wynne, in shock.

Elissa reached one hand for her dagger, the other for her powders, scanning the room for danger. The desire demon and her templar 'husband' were fresh in their minds. But Solona pushed past them all, scooped up her skirts, and broke into a run. "Cullen!"

A jagged voice moaned out in disbelief. "This trick again? I know what you are. It won't work. I will stay strong…" He wavered, trying to rise, but failing.

She gasped. "Cullen! Don't you recognize me?"

"Only too well... how far they must have delved into my thoughts…"

Solona pressed her hands to the barrier, fingers throbbing with magic, but could not breach it. The young templar inside recoiled, fumbling with his empty scabbard. His fists clutched at the air beside his hip, searching for the hilt of his missing sword.

"It doesn't seem to be weakening. Wynne, you are the expert. Help me!"

The older woman followed her, studying the tableau with a troubled expression. "The boy is exhausted. And this cage... I've never seen anything like it. Rest easy now... help is here."

"Enough visions. If anything in you is human... kill me now and stop this game," pleaded Cullen, rocking back and forth from his heels to his knees.

Bodies littered the floor outside the conjured cell. At first Alistair mistook them for old men by their white hair, but upon closer inspection he could see these could have been only a few years into their service. Their faces were screwed up in gruesome agony. "It's like they died of fright." He felt sick, deep in the pit of his stomach. The Veil felt _wrong_ here. "Something has been torturing the survivors. To be possessed you have to… I suppose in a manner of speaking, you have to consent. Doesn't matter how they drag that consent out of you, though…"

"He's been without food or water for days," Elissa observed, biting her lip. "Our skins are useless If we cannot pass the barrier. Will magic pass through? Can you conjure water on his side?"

"Anything is worth a try." Solona curled two fingers upward, motioning to summon a puddle of water.

The trapped templar began to shout. "Don't! I don't want anything from you!"

She froze, hand still hovering in the air. "Cullen?"

"Don't touch me! Stay away! Sifting through my thoughts... tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never have... Using my shame against me... my ill advised infatuation with her... a mage, of all things. I am so tired of these cruel jokes... these tricks... these…"

"Hush. Not now," Solona interrupted, softly distraught. "You'll only say something you'll regret."

"Silence... I'll not listen to anything you say. Now begone!" Cullen squeezed his eyes shut, gasping with effort to breathe. With each exhale came the creaky wheeze of a broken rib. The armor he wore was dented with the imprint of tremendous claws, and streaked by scorch marks. Clearly he had been involved in the fight in the Templar Quarters, before his capture. His curly blond hair was made frizzy with sweat, and he had a week's worth of scruff on his cheeks. His lips were sunken and waxy with thirst. His pallor was gray, his eyes sleep deprived. At any moment it looked like he would topple over.

"Cullen…" Solona coaxed.

He moaned. "Still here? But that's always worked before. I close my eyes, but you are still here when I open them."

She smiled feebly, stretching out her hand as though she would touch him. "Of course I am. Whatever you might have seen before, I am myself. Not a demon."

"Sola, you're dead. Everyone is dead. I'm the only one and soon..." Cullen's hands dropped to the floor. The fingers were swollen and green with compression fractures. Without a weapon, without lyrium, he'd only had his fists. He had tried to batter his way through the barrier until the joints on his gauntlets shattered. "It showed me. It said I could have you back if only I… How have you survived? Tell me."

"I was imprisoned in the dungeon. As you well know."

"Don't blame me for being cautious. The voices... the images... so real... You have to tell me something that couldn't be plucked from my brain."

"Oh, Cullen. Lily... She... She hanged herself with a blanket. She was right across the aisle, but I could not reach her. Edgar left me in those accursed magebane shackles." She touched a bandaged wrist, shaking off the memory of her helplessness. "I screamed for help but your fellows never came. Then I heard the sound of fighting, and Kinnon came down to free me."

"You were never supposed to be down there for so long. The Knight-Commander only punished you because he was angry with Irving," muttered Cullen. He was weeping, but did not seem to notice. "But people started to say you were a blood mage, too. I wanted to speak up… but if I had told him about us… You are a mage and I, a templar. It is my duty to oppose you and all you are."

"You should have had the good sense never to take up with her in the first place," Wynne frowned, crossing her arms.

"Not now," Elissa reprimanded. Wynne made a noise of disapproval in the back of her throat, but held her tongue.

Cullen glowered. "It was the foolish fancy of a naive boy. I know better now. And to think I once thought we were too hard on you."

"Cullen, don't say that. Please. I thought when you did not come for me, you must be dead," Solona shivered. "They left me to rot for weeks for a crime I tried to prevent, but I never blamed all templars for it. Never you. How could you think we're all evil, Cullen?"

"But… Did a mage not start this? Isn't one of you to blame? Only mages have that much power at their fingertips. Only mages are so susceptible to the infernal whisperings of the demons. They caged us like animals... looked for ways to break us. I'm the only one left... They turned some into... monsters. And... there was nothing I could do."

"We're all vulnerable," said Alistair. "All of us. Templars, too. We should think of a way to get him out."

"Another sword arm would not be amiss when fighting this Uldred," seconded Elissa. "Wynne, any thoughts on the barrier?"

"It won't dispel," Cullen explained. "We all tried, all of my brothers together, until I was the only one left. Nothing weakens the orb."

Wynne cast a probing spell, which was quickly absorbed by the thick wall of purple light. "Normal barriers degrade over time without the caster feeding them mana. That it remains suggests it is fed by blood. We may have to kill the mage who crafted it to break the spell."

Cullen interjected. "Don't think I'm not grateful... but why should I live when my friends lie dead, their bodies and spirits broken?" His hands spasmed compulsively as he stood.

"If you won't do it for me, Cullen… do it for the survivors. There are mages counting on you still to protect them," Solona whispered.

"No. Everyone is gone. I've seen it. I've heard it." He was so urgent, so fervent in his belief that Alistair almost believed him.

Elissa lightly tapped the wall, and it oscillated in response, like ripples on a pond. It was flexible on the skin, not rigid, but still sturdy enough to break Cullen's fingers. The flickers of magic were reminiscent of the font in the Fade. "Niall told me that Irving and the other Senior Enchanters were fighting Uldred."

"They are in the Harrowing Chamber. The sounds coming out from there... oh, Maker… You can't save them. You don't know what they've become."

"I don't think he can take much more of this, Warden." Solona gathered herself with a quick breath. She brushed away a silent tear. "If Wynne doesn't think we can free him from here, then we need to go upstairs and do it there."

"No!" Cullen roared, lunging at the barrier. He bounced back with a rattle. "Sola! You haven't been up there. You haven't been under their influence. They've been surrounded b-by blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts. You have to leave the tower, while you still have your mind."

"Cullen, we have the Litany. We might still save my uncle."

"Nooo," Cullen moaned. His eyes turned hard. "You've done this before. You see good in evil people; you'll make a mistake. You'll let maleficars live because you want them to be good."

Elissa paused. "What does he mean, Solona?"

"I don't think now is the best time…"

"They deserve to know what kind of person you are."

"What kind of _person_ I am?" she gasped. "Cullen, please! Why are you saying these things?"

"Tell them or I will," Cullen warned. "I won't let you be the cause of any more deaths."

Solona turned aside, no longer able to face him. A heavy shudder shook her body, and when she spoke, it was in a wretched voice. "Wardens, you are aware that the templars were keeping me prisoner. I did not say why, because it was a… delicate situation. A friend of mine discovered that the templars planned to make him Tranquil. Usually, this sort of thing is sprung on a mage by surprise," she remarked bitterly, "but his lover was an initiate working in the service of the Knight-Captain. She discovered the paperwork by accident. There was an… allegation. An allegation which I did not believe."

"He was a blood mage," completed Cullen.

"I didn't know!" she cried. "And neither did you! None of us thought him capable of maleficarum. He was…" Solona searched for the words. "He was friendly and kind, but unfortunately _dull_. Hardly a mage of ambition. He tried to rope the First Enchanter's niece into his stupid escape plan, Maker's sake. Irving asked me to supervise the attempt while he summoned the templars. We'd almost peacefully subdued him, too, until they threatened Lily. He turned a knife on himself. It was the first time I'd seen blood magic. Until Uldred revealed himself, I couldn't fathom how he'd learned it. After Jowan fled, Lily and I were arrested for conspiracy."

"Jowan?" repeated Elissa, caught by that name. Alistair went very still, trying to ignore the hot feeling behind his eyes.

"You know of him, Warden?"

"Only tangentially." It was amazing how casual she could be when she set her mind to it. "He was Loghain's man in Redcliffe. Arlessa Guerrin had him put to death."

"For apostasy?"

"For attempted murder. He poisoned her husband."

"No. That doesn't sound like the Jowan I knew..." But Solona was left reeling. "He only killed when he felt he had no other choice! Cullen's right. I should have been a better friend; I could have stopped him."

"You see?" urged Cullen. "One blood mage loose in Ferelden caused so much destruction. What could more do? The only way to be really sure is to kill everyone in that chamber. Sometimes terrible things must be done to protect the greater good."

"What greater good? What good is done by killing the innocent? I cannot allow this talk. I will defend this Circle to the death," snapped Wynne, banging the end of her staff on the floor. Ice skittered in a snowflake pattern under their boots.

Alistair took a step back, feeling the familiar itch to draw his sword in the presence of magic. "Whoa... one second here. I sense that things are going quickly downhill. Lissa— the Warden didn't say anything about murdering innocents. In fact, I have it on good authority that she's staunchly pro-innocent."

Elissa pulled back from the cage. "That's right, Alistair. I try not to let fear-addled templars dictate my terms."

"Ooh, that smarts," he answered blandly. It was a painless barb. If she was actually angry, she might have revealed his hand in Jowan's death before the mages.

Cullen turned to him. "You know the painful truth as well as I. To save this Circle… You must know that the blood mages will have broken the others. It has been seven days, by my count."

Alistair shook his head. Yes, he was afraid of what they would find in the Harrowing Chamber. He was more afraid that Cullen might be right. They'd lost two days wandering in the Fade. _Ten years._ If Irving had turned, then Greagoir would never let them out alive. "But you resisted."

"Did I?" he questioned, bitterly. "I am not so sure."

"I'm afraid that either way, you're stuck there. We simply must have the First Enchanter. Ferelden needs him," insisted Elissa gently. "You do not have a monopoly on abominations this week. I'm sorry we cannot do more for you here, Ser Cullen."

"Compassion. You'll doom us all," he scowled.

"Be grateful that the Maker sends patient women," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "If you won't be helpful, be quiet."

Uldred had not built the game for her to play, and that was their one advantage. Loghain had removed every enemy from the board in one simultaneous move— Eamon, Bryce, Urien, Cailan, Irving— but had not factored in a little noble girl with a very sharp knife. Likewise, Uldred would be expecting mages vulnerable to his possession or templars still wet behind the ears. Not seasoned Wardens armed with the Litany of Adralla.

Alistair found that soothing. He would take comfort where he found it. Maker knew it was thin on the ground.

* * *

The battle in the Harrowing Chamber was horrific. Small mercies for Wynne's masterclass healing prowess, which kept them alive in the maelstrom. And for his youthful obsessions with Adralla, because when the moment was at hand, he was the first to belt out the words of her song. Elissa's voice, steadied by years of lessons, sweetened the tune, which was then was joined by Wynne's reedy old soprano and Solona's shaky alto. It was a chant to consume the thoughts, to drive away the tendrils of mind control, and had a constant refrain. After a few rounds, even the weary old mages were mouthing along, shattering Uldred's hold over them.

Through the fight, Alistair found himself reaching for Lissa, and to his surprise, always found her reaching back. Gloved fingers brushing gauntleted ones, tips grazing and then spinning away, always away in the brutal dance of combat. He had to touch her, just for a moment, just to know she was there. Never had it ever been so bad before. When their hands came apart, he was left bereft by the absence of her warmth. A little part of him was relieved, though. The intensity of his feelings was bewildering, even with a name for it: _soulbond_.

There was a sore, prickling feeling under his skin, where Solona had manipulated the bind. Was the magic something physical, running through their veins, like lyrium residue in the blood of a templar? Or was that an illusion? The pain felt real enough. By what method had she contrived to grasp it? How had she even known it was there?

Tenacity. That was what Alistair loved about Elissa Cousland. Her sheer bloody-mindedness in the face of stupid odds and ungrateful bastards. He wracked his brain for tangible attributes to label her with, better than the flittering thoughts of: _the sweet musk of her Orlesian perfume... the way her curly hair tangled up in humid weather... the sea shanties she hummed while cooking breakfast…_ None of which seemed substantial enough. If he was going to die here, he wanted his final thoughts to be of Elissa. The real Elissa, not the false one who warmed his Fade-dreams.

He watched her, numb and filthy and hungry, while she drove both her blades into the grotesque body of the creature once known as Uldred. Uldred, man who prepared her Joining. Uldred, the last man in Ferelden who knew the secrets of the ritual potion. Uldred, the ally of Loghain. Uldred, the abomination. Then, Uldred, the nothing.

"Everyone alive?" Lissa croaked, voice wild and hoarse. She wobbled, bow legged from cramping muscles. "Irving? Sweeney? Other mage… I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name. Do tell me later, yes? Good." Alistair met her halfway, dropping his sword and shield with a clatter to sweep her up. She smelled like fire. "And you?" she asked, pressing her smooth cheek against his beard. "Are you safe too, my love?"

The bond flared with sympathetic magic. His bones turned molten under the vibrations of the spell. Alistair shuddered, wondering whose emotions he was feeling. _Victoryreliefhorror_. He thought of Cullen, railing against the mages from inside his gilded cage. He thought of Solona, wearing shackles and chains in his dreams. "Yes," he answered, and kissed her until he almost believed it.

* * *

Alistair found Elissa hours later in the Office of the First Enchanter, flipping leisurely through the pages of a large book bound in black leather. Irving Trevelyan's safe was flung open; his private papers were piled neatly beside her left hand. His trunk had been rifled through as well. It seemed no lock was sound enough to be safe from her picks. Alistair had never known her to turn up the chance. But any moral compulsion he'd ever felt about her roguish behavior had fallen to the wayside. After all, her stolen goods put bread in his belly. And cheese. And beer.

He caught her talking out loud, as she usually did while working out a particularly knotted problem. "I'm sure this couldn't have been Loghain's intention when he courted Uldred to his side. Did Jowan join Loghain as Uldred's cohort, or was it done independently? _How_ is Loghain finding every disaffected, disenfranchised man in Ferelden?" Elissa mused, twirling a feather between her finger and thumb. "I wonder if we could… Who else keeps a list of dissenters besides the King's Seneschal? Eamon seems the type—"

"Now, this is a familiar scene," he teased by way of greeting.

"Oh, hello again, Alistair. I don't suppose you can read this?" she asked him with a frustrated smile, gesturing to the yellowed parchment. "Half of the book is written in this bizarre script, and the half in common is so obscure it might as well be."

"What is that?" Alistair wrinkled his nose. It had a whiff of unfamiliar magic under the musty smell of dry rot. "Yeesh. I think the preservation charms have gone off."

She slammed the book shut with a dusty thump. The edges were stained dark brown with old blood. "This is Flemeth's Grimoire. A reward from our esteemed First Enchanter, even if he doesn't know that just yet. Solona thought it might be more helpful than any of the Chantry-sanitized volumes in the library. But I can't read a word of it, I'm afraid. I can speak two languages and read a third but Mother never thought to add arcane to my curriculum. How impractical."

"Maker's breath, if that's Flemeth's real grimoire, I'm surprised you haven't been cursed just for opening it. Nevermind reading it, Lis!" He quickly covered her hand with his own, as if to hold the book shut.

"I got curious."

"You always do."

"Yes, well, it's not for me anyway; it's for Morrigan. Solona said the previous First Enchanter passed the damned thing off to Irving when he took the position, but that if the templars knew he had it they'd soil themselves. Was supposed to be burned long ago."

He blinked. "Why did they keep it?" A strange tree was stitched into the front cover; the weight of his hand pushed her fingers into the creases.

"She didn't say. I'm guessing by what happened with Uldred, there are probably several forbidden books around here in need of the pyre." With a sigh, she shook her head. "Not that I'm usually in favor of burning books, or destroying any sort of knowledge, but… Can you believe how many half-completed summonings we had to deactivate today?"

"I know." He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders, resting his chin on her head. "I bet you thought killing Uldred would be the last of the evil magic things, yeah?"

"That rage demon could have killed the children. Can't say I wasn't tempted to let Cullen have his way with the Rite, after that." He felt her droop. "I'm so tired, my love."

"I know, Lis. Me too. I came to tell you, Solona and Wynne have finished packing their things. Such as they are."

"No luck with the templars?"

"None. The templars are scared. Greagoir says he needs every last one to ferret out any nasty surprises Uldred might have left him."

"Hm. I suppose it does deserve a second going-over. There might be another sloth demon in a broom cupboard somewhere. Not even Ser Cullen? I thought we would have him for certain."

Alistair grimaced. "Better not. His experience left him completely paranoid about mages, and we have three in our party." ' _He'd smite Morrigan sure as looking at her.'_

"But Solona... "

"They're not exactly on speaking terms, Lissa, after all that…"

She reluctantly pulled away from his embrace, hissing as she rose on her sore feet. "I'm being a romantic, aren't I? A templar and a mage. Could that even happen?"

"It does, quite often," enjoined a third voice. Wynne stepped out of the shadowed doorway. Her tone was missing the anger of her earlier opinion, and was left with an air of wistful, nostalgic sorrow. "I'm sorry to say it always ends badly... for the mage. Templars who dally with their charges are of the cruelest sort."

"Even when motivated by pure intentions?"

"Even then." She bowed her head.

"Who was it, Wynne?" Elissa asked, softly, coming around the desk.

"I shouldn't… but perhaps honesty is necessary to help you understand, Warden." She exhaled, and her face became like smooth glass. "You know him as the Knight-Commander. But I once knew him as a foolish, idealistic boy. He was as handsome as ever, then, and I suppose I'm a little vain when I say I was considered to be beautiful. Mage girls are like hothouse flowers, blooming in a cage, tempting to be plucked, and our guardians spend so much time watching us. But our mistake nearly destroyed the both of us. Enchanter Amell has the rare opportunity to get some distance between her and her erstwhile paramour. I suggest you encourage the breakup."

"Noted. I thank you for your candor. My apologies for silencing you, before."

Wynne waved it off. "It was not the time and place for it. I hope you can come to trust my advice."

"I'm sure I will," Elissa agreed, smiling thinly, with the voice of her magnanimous noble persona. "You can begin by taking our boat back across the lake, to Redcliffe, with Irving and the lyrium. Healers are in terribly short supply. Alistair, Solona, and myself will take the long way 'round."

"At once, Warden." Wynne hesitated, considering if she should bow, and settled for walking quickly away.

Elissa held still, listening for the sound of slippered feet to pad softly away into silence. "Incorrigible old woman," she hissed, when she thought they were alone again. "How long was she listening in the hall, do you think?"

"Well, she would have had to follow me slowly—" Alistair shrugged.

"That was rhetorical, dear." She stretched out her arms above her head; the joints cracked. "If I didn't need her, I'd leave her in this Maker-forsaken tower, and she knows it."

He felt a powerful flash of irritation, beginning in his gut and rising, but for the first time he recognized that this emotion did not belong to him. He took a calming breath, trying to chase the feeling away. Nothing happened. Of course it would not be as easy as that. Nothing ever was.


	26. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains animal hunting and food issues

They took the long way home. More and more, Alistair caught himself referring to Redcliffe as _home_ again. Like he was a lad of ten, and not a grown man. Technically, Grey Wardens had no homes. No countries, nor citizenships neither. They required no papers but their griffin badges to cross the borders of Thedas or to disembark in strange harbors.

Alistair did have a cot and a trunk in the bunkhouse in Denerim, but he had strong doubts that he'd ever be back to collect his stash of smutty novels. He'd never had many personal possessions, anyway. The templars did not encourage ownership; in fact, they stripped candidates of their worldly belongings upon admission to the academy. Alistair entered with nothing. The ascetic life of the Chantry came naturally to the boy who once slept in a stable.

What use had he for a house full of things, when all of his belongings could more or less fit in a rucksack? He currently owned:

one set of massive plate armor, with the painted templar emblem scratched off and the skirt ripped away (badly damaged in the Battle of Redcliffe and left behind at the blacksmith's for repairs);

one set of medium weight Warden armor, with blue gambeson and associated trimmings (freshly laundered);

two pairs of wool socks (holey) and two sets of smallclothes (also holey);

one properly fitting shirt and breeches (formerly the property of Carver Hawke) and one set much too big (formerly the property a very portly villager);

his mother's Andraste medallion (worn close to his heart);

the bloom of a red rose, preserved by enchantment (stored carefully in a cloth-wrapped glass jar);

various rags, oils, and polishes to keep his equipment in proper order (plus some bootblack 'borrowed' from the corpse of a dead cobbler, Maker guide his soul);

a shield (with the griffin painted over the previous crest) and a standard-issue templar sword (which he wouldn't mind replacing);

a bedroll and tent (left behind in Redcliffe to lighten the journey);

one comfortable pair of black boots (still watertight).

Lastly, there was one bottle of ritewine labeled ' _Warden Elissa Cousland, yes milady'._ He meant to give it to her on the anniversary of her Joining. Ironically, it was made up mostly of brandy, as that was what she prefered to drink. Whenever he was left to his own devices in a tavern, he bought a shot for her bottle. Traditionally, one filled a Warden's bottle with 'conscripted' booze, but of all the things left abandoned or unattended because of the Blight, good alcohol was not among them. Alistair did not want to _poison_ her with his present.

Redcliffe was his past and present problem. His responsibility. After all, he had been the one who begged Elissa to stay and help even when it was clear that Arl Eamon could not assist them with the Blight. She'd pushed aside her reasonable doubts because of her love for him. Morrigan had been injured because of that choice. Whatever guilt he might have felt over his role in Morrigan's condition was somewhat mitigated, however, by the fact she must have knowledge of the soulbond, that damned magic afflicting them.

She had never mentioned it. Come to think of it, she had even encouraged Alistair to pursue his feelings for Elissa. When he'd been ready to give up on his ill-advised infatuation, it was Morrigan who talked him back down off the metaphorical cliff. At the time he'd been grateful. Now, he was suspicious. What was the witch's game? Morrigan was a cruel woman, after all, but he did not feel the better for having validated his first impression. They'd nearly been friends, in their own fashion.

Pondering the mystery of Morrigan, Alistair nearly put his foot down on a snare. He cursed softly, hopping back on his off foot so as to not destroy the trap. Lissa had fashioned a few around their makeshift campsite out of supple green branches and twine, hoping to catch a rabbit or a nug for their supper. They were not the most artful devices he'd ever seen, as her preferred method of hunting was by bow and hound, but she'd gone to the trouble and Alistair hated the thought of carelessly stamping on one.

Elissa, for all her urgency in the previous days, seemed to be almost dawdling now. Her first order of business after seeing Wynne and Irving off on the _Isolde_ was to scope out the village of Kinloch. She'd been greatly amused by the coincidence that Kester's boat was lovingly dubbed the _Lissie_ , and conversed breathlessly with him while manning an oar. Alistair had volunteered for the task, but couldn't quite manage the timing. Put her on the water, and it became clear that the Highever lass had spent half her life that way: on her mother's retired warship _Mistral,_ on her father's merchant vessels, on her grandfather's raiding boats. The choppy waves that set poor Solona to vomiting over the aft side failed to ruffle Lissa's feathers.

After the three disembarked, Solona was set to rights by a long sit on solid ground (some of which was spent retching into a bush). The local tavern was called the _Spoiled Princess._ It was sparsely populated, with only one surly drunk being served by the quietly desperate innkeeper and his bored assistant, an outspoken dwarven woman who warned them away from the house liquors. Elissa tipped her for the warning, hired a bath and a meal for each of them _,_ and directed the woman to procure the services of the village laundress.

The beer was bad, but the food Felsi served them was worse. After picking through a underdone potato and a gristly bit of meat, Elissa threw up her hands and said they'd take their chances on the road. By then, Solona had worked out a suitable drying spell for their wet clothes (the first attempt had scorched Alistair's best undershirt and gave the poor laundress a fright), so they packed up and left Kinloch behind.

Thus, the snares. Alistair had gone out to check them, but he only had a rough idea of where they'd been set, so he was mostly stumbling blindly through the underbrush, listening for the tell-tale squealing of a trapped animal. They had camped only a short distance outside of the village, near the lake. Truth be told, none of them had considered that their mage friend was not dressed for travelling until it was too late. Her silk robes dragged in the mud. Her expensive, embroidered slippers, soaked through with blood stains despite the laundress's best efforts, were suited better to a library. Nor was she accustomed to walking great distances. After the first mile she had begun to limp, and by two she was huffing to keep up with what Alistair thought was a fairly leisurely pace. Eventually, Elissa let out with an exaggerated yawn, and suggested they stop while they still had the light.

It was hardly the girl's fault. She did not complain. It would have been easier if she complained. Perhaps she would have preferred to stay behind and rebuild? Did they ever give her the choice? Alistair could not remember. She was used to following orders. Mages would make good soldiers, he thought with surprise, if they were allowed to train to fight. Solona did not fight like a battlemage, raining fire from an indifferent distance. She used her staff, struck close, forgetting sometimes to cast at all, as if magic were an afterthought and not natural as breathing to her. She thought like a warrior. The templars could have kept her. (They kept him.)

They settled on a spot where some hunter had carved a lean-to into the side of the hill. It was dry and sheltered, wind-broke by the dense stand of pines, and the needles were piled soft. Necessary, since they had only one blanket between the three, and the mage would need it the most.

Solona wandered off to look for edible plants. She wanted to be useful. Or alone. Hard to judge her for that, when he did the same. Their little camp seemed crowded, with all those big loud thoughts banging together. 

Alistair cleaned nug bodies on the beach with a utility knife, leaving the guts for the gulls, and imagined the horrified faces Leliana would make if she knew what they were supping on. The inky thumbprint of the circle tower hovered on the distant water. He made a rude gesture in its direction, folded up the knife, and stuck it in the pocket of his breeches. The nugs were strung up on twine, still dripping from the throat as he walked. It left a spatter of red in a trail behind him.

He wondered if that dream he had about a beach was a real prophecy. He had pushed it off, nearly forgotten it, until a dreamed stranger turned up in waking reality. Obviously, he was not a prophet. But it could have been Flemeth's doing. Or some latent magic leaking through in his sleep. He'd never been particularly worried about possession because he'd never been mage-ish enough, but now… what if that little trickle of mana had become bigger when he wasn't looking?

Alistair looked down at his big, calloused hands. They were filthy, slimed up with guts and blood. He wiped them in the tall grass, feeling the rough edges of the stems bite his skin. He looked again. Had his fingers always been this long? Maker's breath, now he really was stalling! No one to see, and no telling when he'd ever be alone again. He took a few quick, shallow breaths and nudged at the mana core inside him, staring unblinking at his fingers. Nothing happened. He pushed harder, looking for the crackling feeling he'd experienced in the Fade. Still nothing. Not so much as a glow.

He told himself he was relieved. Before he went back to camp, he tried a purge, and that rolled out easy and cold, numbing the ambient magicks and rolling like fog to the water's edge. It bumped this barrier and dissipated.

* * *

Elissa sat cross-legged on the ground, scraping a branch bare with the keen edge of her knife. Her twin daggers were stuck in the earth beside her, dark and razor-thin, like young saplings at a distance. She had already whittled two y-shapes, which he surmised were to balance a spit over the fire. A fire pit had been built, but noticeably not lit.

"Did we have luck?" she asked without looking up, recognizing his footfall crunching in the needles.

Alistair held out their quarry. "Worked a treat. Got two." He did not mention that only one had been captured by her traps, and that he'd got the other with a well-thrown rock. Damn things were practically tame. "But only nugs. Are they good to eat?"

"The livers will make you sick, so I remember, but the meat should be fine. Gamey like a rabbit."

"Leliana would disapprove," he observed.

"Probably," Lissa grinned. "I've been on the receiving end of her scolding for shooting birds, too. I told her if she wants me to stop hunting the Maker's smallest animals, she'd better organize a regular supply line."

"Cruel."

"I like to think it's more about sufficient motivation. If she succeeds, we all benefit."

Alistair did admire her practicality, even if he did not like the games Elissa insisted on playing to amuse herself. "Will we be eating these cold?" he asked, nodding to the pile of wood and kindling.

"I think I got too used to having a mage on hand. Somewhere along the way, I must have lost my tinder box, and never noticed because Morrigan always does the campfire."

"Why can't Solona do it?"

"She will, when she gets back."

"Will she come back? I mean, why would she? She could be running."

"Don't talk like a templar." Lissa frowned. "She could be. No one could say she hasn't earned her freedom."

"The Chantry would disagree," he said, unnecessarily.

"Three things. One, her feet can't bear much more today. Don't know how any mage could outrun a hunter, what with them not being allowed out to exercise. Two, she's left her things with me."

Only then did he notice the child's-size cloth valise sitting carefully on a rock. It was dented, like it had spent a long time in the bottom of a trunk, but was obviously expensive. It was monogrammed _E.S.T._ and bore a horse on the crest.

"Oh."

"Three, she's been back once while you were gone, with double fistfuls of elfroot, to ask me what kinds of plants might taste nice with our supper. I told her she might find dandelion or coltsfoot and both were fine, because the yellow flowers are quite obvious in the dim light."

"Does she know much herbalism?" He'd only half-listened to their chatter on the road, and had tuned out their discussion about plants.

"Yes and no. She knows some weirdly specific things I think must have come from a book. And a sound appreciation for flower arranging, which was evidently her nan's great joy. Or, whatever they call nursemaids in the Free Marches."

"But nothing practical?"

"If you're so worried about practicality, Alistair, learn to identify the plants yourself," she scoffed. "Even I only knew the ones local to the northern coasts until Morrigan helped me. What's the matter? You're very unlike yourself tonight."

The words tumbled from his lips before he had time to think. "Doesn't it bother you?" Alistair blurted. "You've said nothing."

Her hands stilled from their task. "I take it you mean that business with the soulbond."

His cheeks flamed. "Yes," he said helplessly.

"I thought it was decided that was Flemeth's doing, and we'd have to see about un-doing it."

"Yes, but doesn't it bother you?"

She looked wounded. "Of course it does. But if I had a fit every time I encountered magic that is strange to me, I'd have lost my nerve months ago."

"Of course," he said, at a loss.

"Alistair, please understand. We did not keep an arcane advisor in my father's service, which is a shame in hindsight because I think there are places in Amaranthine which could desperately use the expertise. By my reckoning, before I was conscripted, I met precisely two mages, and both of them were Enchanters to King Maric's Court. I am reminded over and over that magic is a blind spot in my education, and yet it is everywhere I look. Until we know more on this soulbond, I don't know what to do. Solona has offered to research the Tevene connection, if we can send away to a certain publisher. It will be harder to get anything, with the borders closed." She gave him a serious, sidelong glance. "Unless you know something I don't?"

"No." This was not precisely a lie, but it did feel like an omission. He had sensed the soulbond before the mage had identified it, but had never told Elissa. At the time, he justified that it would be impossible to explain. Now, he felt to tell her might give away a different secret.

She read something on his face, by the way her eyes narrowed, looking up at him. "Did Morrigan tell you?"

"She did not," he said, with an edge to his voice.

"Nor me. I do wonder why. I know that she and her mother did some sort of Fade-related spell to save our lives back then. Maybe that's why it showed now— we've been back in the Fade. But why not during ordinary dreams?"

"Perhaps it does show up then, only we never noticed."

"How could we? We're not mages," she dismissed. "Anyway, if this magic was done to save our lives, maybe one of us was still alive when it was carried out. I always thought that Morrigan meant we were both dead at Ostagar. But how could that work?" Elissa stood, brushing wood shavings from her trousers.

"If you're right, one of us is leeching life from the other. I suppose that doesn't matter, what with being Grey Wardens."

"So you're worried about dying?"

"No. And yes. You needn't say that like I'm a coward," Alistair said crossly.

"Did I? That's not what I meant."

She was standing very close to him now, and he ran his hand up her shoulder, touching the spot at the edges of her neck and throat where an arrow had once found its mark. She flinched, remembering it too, so he moved on, not wanting to distress her. He drifted past the fine, pale scar on her jawline, a token from Loghain. His fingers buried themselves in her hair, cupping her head in the broad expanse of his hand.

"I worry," Alistair admitted, "that everything I feel for you had been influenced by this spell. That it's not real."

She closed her eyes. "I see. I can understand that. After the Fade, it's a little harder to believe that anything is real. The Blight might be a bad dream from which we might awake."

"I… care about you, Lissa. It's not easy for me to say, but I mean it."

"I know."

"You said you loved me, too. What if you're only reflecting my feelings because of the bind?" Alistair asked, in a hoarse whisper. Suppressing a tremor, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. At a word,she might break him utterly.

"You really think I could only love you because you loved me first?" Elissa was incredulous, but gentle. "Give me a little credit. I'm not blind, nor can I fancy myself immune to your charms." Her lips turned up into a wry smile as she blushed.

A light in his heart. Hope. "Such as they are," he smirked.

"Hush. You're handsome, witty, virtuous, and brave. My real life knight from a fairy tale."

"Virtuous?" He wrinkled his nose.

"Well, you _were_..."

"Oh, don't gloat. Your smugness is un _bear_ able." Alistair silenced her with a kiss. Her lips were chilly. He wrapped himself around her to warm her, licked the line of her lips and she parted eagerly for his tongue. Her mouth was as hot as her skin was cold, and behind the haze of arousal he worried about a long night without a tent or even a blanket. It was too much like those dark nights in the Wilds for his liking.

"You're freezing," he complained, breaking the kiss. "It may be summer but the lake makes things cold at night. We could have stayed at the _Princess_."

"And woken up with fleas and lice and bedbugs? That public house was kept like a sty." She was so indignant, it was charming.

"There are worse things than fleas," he chuckled.

"Yes, but I already have the Taint. Must I be infested as well?" she pouted.

"No," he assured her, kissing her nose. "I'll sleep on the cold hard ground with you every night, if that's what you want."

"Yes it is." Elissa gave him a cheeky smile. "Every night."

"Anything for you, my lady." He leaned in to kiss her again.

A soft, deliberate cough sent them springing apart from their embrace. "So sorry for interrupting, Wardens." Solona came bearing a great armful of greens. Alistair wasn't sure how she'd managed it, without a basket, but as she lurched forward with her bundle, back bowed to balance, he could easily picture her carrying large stacks of books in the same fashion.

As Elissa moved toward her to assist Solona with the preparation of their meal, Alistair was struck by the thought that his two companions could not have been more different. Both were born into noble houses, but as far as he could tell, that was where their similarities ended. Solona was olive-skinned and black-haired, where Elissa was pale and red-haired, and Alistair hardly minded watching two beautiful women working together before the fire. (Even if that did make him a lech, well, he could pray for forgiveness later.)

Solona was broad-shouldered and curvaceous, and the tightly fitting cut of her robes at the bust accentuated the shape of her full breasts. Her cheeks were round and her lips plump, and her honey brown eyes were deep set in her face, smudged liberally with kohl on the lid and under the eye. She had a certain softness about her, probably from growing up in a tower, that Elissa lacked now, if she'd ever had it. Solona's figure reminded him of her younger cousin Bethany, a certain undeniable femininity which was attractive, if not fashionable. But unlike Bethany, Solona was used to defending herself from unwanted attention: her posture was awkward when she walked, with stooped shoulders.

Elissa, though he would have never assigned the thought to her before, appeared sickly beside the other girl. Once slender, she was now lean, hard and angular, all corners. She carried her height with perfect posture, drilled into her by her mother, as if she was always balancing a book on her head, but she limped, ever so slightly. The Taint gave them unusual metabolism, and though he made sure to watch her eat, they never had enough to go around with two Wardens wanting seconds and thirds. She was losing weight again, he suddenly realized. It wasn't much of a stretch to picture her cheeks gaunt and bloodless, lips crusted by sores. Their inevitable end, if the Call did not come first.

Alistair forced his extra portion into her hands, irritated with himself, and twice irritated at his stomach for rumbling. Wasn't much meat on two nugs. She protested slightly, frowning when he insisted he wasn't hungry.


	27. Families

Alistair had the first watch. He matched the soft, huffing breaths of the woman in his arms, listening to her sleep. With every passing minute, he talked himself into remaining just a minute more, then another, scanning her face for the nightmares he was certain would come. Finally, his elbow began to throb, and with great reluctance he carefully extracted his arm from behind her neck. Elissa shifted, but settled deeper into the soft, dry pine needles without a murmur. Her face rested on the leather flap of her open pack, protecting it from accidental pricks from their ‘bedding’. Her gloved hands were balled up tight against her stomach, and her knees were curved protectively around them. Her sheathed daggers were propped against each other within arm’s reach, should the alarm be raised.

Sighing, he rolled onto his back. He stretched his legs, and then wiggled his toes, testing the boundaries of his boots. The ground radiated the heat of the day; the camp was sheltered and fairly secure; the night was soothingly dark, but… he could not sleep. More precisely, he did not want to sleep. There was a gnarled, voiceless fear in the pit of his stomach which gnawed at him. Anxiety filled his chest and spread across his limbs with heavy, cold dread. If he let himself pass over into sleep, what would happen?

Would he return to Sloth’s prison? Wynne said that world was gone with the demon’s death, but what if she was wrong? It had been shaped by his most vivid, most secret hopes and fears. What if his dreaming mind reconstructed his cage, and he could not find the way out again?

He pinched his fingers together, digging the nail edge of his thumb into the fleshy pad of his pointer. A small, dull pain to keep him awake on watch. In his dream, he’d been a free man, slipped from the shackles of the Orders which owned him in turn. Having never known freedom of choice before, he was not entirely sure he could keep it. After all, few could change what they were. Arls were arls because they were born to that life. Farmers were farmers, kings were kings. Sten said that outside the Qun, men toiled under the illusion of free will, and were made unhappy. Alistair silently agreed, not that he was eager to run off and convert.

Dear Lissa… She thrived on change, not satisfied until she could stand on the top of the mountain and say she answered to no one but the Maker. Born into a world where daughters like her were meant to be pretty and quiet, she’d tossed aside her skirts for a sword. It was not farfetched to think that if she’d been a few years older, _she_ would have been Cailan’s queen. She and Anora were cut from the same bolt of cloth, after all. Actually, considering his thinly veiled contempt for Loghain Mac Tir, Eamon might have pushed to arrange that betrothal anyway, from the moment a Cousland bairn girlie was announced.

With a flicker of jealousy, he was grateful she was his, and not his brother’s. He sat up, chewing his tongue, feeling ridiculous. He’d never been jealous of Cailan before.

But.

He could never give her what she needed. A teryna needed heirs, needed Cousland sons with bright eyes and flame-colored hair. The line between dream and nightmare was in the lie. Lissa did not know that Grey Wardens were sterile when they were... together. A tainted womb could not be filled by tainted seed. If they wanted to be together, two family lines would die. But he could not bring himself to tell her, not when… not when...

Soon. He told himself he’d tell her soon, when they’d unravelled the soulbond and she could not feel his heart break. He told himself he did not know what she would choose.

Alistair sat cross legged at the dying fire, poking it with a thin branch, so sparks burst from the blackened wood and scattered, blinking in the air. He heard the mage before he saw her, approaching him from the other side of the fire pit. Her slippers padded in the loose dirt. “How do you sleep in all this open air?” she complained, in a good natured sort of way.

“This is nothing. Until you’ve slept in a darkspawn infested marsh, you haven’t slept at all.” He yawned as she took a seat beside him. “Is it your watch now?”

“I have no idea what time it is, without a bell or a candle. I’m afraid I’m not built for life outdoors.” Solona laughed. “Elissa tells me you met some cousins of mine in Lothering.”

Alistair gave her a terse, “Yes,” and ran a hand over his jaw.

She smiled, lifting her fingers over the softly glowing embers to warm them. “It bothers, you, doesn’t it? That I’m a mage.” Her black hair hung freely down her back, as long as her waist, in the fashion of a woman of leisure.

“It’s not that,” he frowned.

“I would be more surprised if it didn’t bother you,” she pressed. From out of the aether bloomed a flash of fire. She let the tiny flame run up the back of her hand; it danced across her skin but left the flesh unsinged. It was beautiful in its way, raw, and unnerving with the memory of electricity skittering down his own fingers still fresh in his mind.

“You’re testing me,” he observed placidly. “That’s all very well and good, until you set the forest on fire.” Days ago, her careless magic would have set his teeth on edge, but somehow, surviving magic used for enormous evil had made the regular sort rather banal. The tingling of the spell across his skin was still not pleasant, but at least he found it easier to resist the compulsion to mute it.

“I won’t,” she said, a touch cross. “I’m in complete control.”

“Said Uldred seconds before he got possessed,” Alistair retorted tartly, then shook his head. “I don’t blame you for needing to know what sort of beast an ex-templar might be. If you want to know, just ask me. Because if you want to spend weeks concocting passive-aggressive tests for me to fail, I can save you the time. Morrigan’s done that already and she can give you the notes.”

“Fine.” She slapped one hand over the other, snuffing the flame. “Where are you from?”

“Redcliffe.”

“Ah, a local. Will I meet your parents?”

“No. I’ve been an orphan all my life.”

“Oh, sorry.” With a nervous gesture, she combed her fingers through her thick hair, and began to absent-mindedly braid it into its usual style. It was so practiced that she must have done it every day for years.

Alistair realized she was waiting for him to go on. He traced a finger in the warm earth— a soft mixture of dirt, sand, and ash. “I wasn’t sent to an orphanage,” he explained. “I’ve been the ward of the arl from infancy.”

“So you’re a noble, too? I’m afraid I only know the major Fereldan lords.”

“I suppose, technically. I’m not titled, but yes. I’m Arl Eamon’s relation through his sister’s husband,” he said evasively.

“Any siblings?”

“Mhm. I have a sister in Denerim. Never met her. She married when I was a boy. Her husband is an elf, I heard, but they live outside the alienage. And my brother— my brother…” Alistair struggled for a moment, finding his tongue stuttering over calling Cailan his brother to a near-stranger. “My brother died at Ostagar.”

She watched him draw the shape of a griffon’s wing in the dust. “It seems like everyone lost someone in that battle. Even at the tower, there were so many…” Solona trailed away. “I don’t know. I like to hope some of them got away in the chaos.”

 _Fire. Screaming. The arrow. Dark wings._ “Why didn’t you go? I thought all the enchanters were there?”

“Most of them were. Some were too old, or weren’t suited for combat. I volunteered with—” she paused. “With Uldred. But Uncle Irving insisted he needed me to stay behind with him, as his assistant. We were writing letters, trying to slog through the bureaucratic nightmare.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, King Cailan could take volunteers from the mages but he could only have so many.”

“I thought a Blight supersedes Circle neutrality.”

“Yes, but it hadn’t been declared a real Blight yet. Nobody had seen an archdemon. Still, Warden-Commander Duncan warned the First Enchanter to be ready. To mobilize the full force of the towers on Lake Calenhad and Jainen for a Blight meant petitioning the Grand Cleric in Denerim, and the Divine in Val Royeaux, and the Grand Enchanter in Cumberland.” She ticked these names off her fingertips.

“Maker’s breath, now you sound like Lissa.”

“Do I? I’ll take that as a compliment. At least the Wardens can cut through most of the ego stroking.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “We have these old treaties, you see. Grey Wardens have them all sorts of places, but the Fereldan ones must have been struck back in Garahel’s day because they’re mostly with the Alamarri. So. They’re sort of useless. The modern lords do not _have_ to honor their terms because King Arland banished the Wardens from Ferelden two hundred years ago.”

Solona’s eyebrows knitted together in surprise. “Then what can you do?”

“Pander, wheedle, trade favors, that sort of thing. Ego stroking, as you say. Elissa is the scion of the most powerful family in the kingdom but…” Alistair realized his voice was growing louder as they carried on, and checked himself back into a whisper. “She doesn’t have access to her family treasury right now. She and Leliana— oh, I suppose you could call Leli her seneschal— they gamble on the Cousland reputation alone.”

A flush spread across the apples of Solona’s cheeks and her nose, emphasizing her freckles. “Cousland? Maker, they control most of the textile trade on the Waking Sea. Why didn’t she say?”

“Maybe she thought it didn’t matter?” Alistair shrugged, thinking, _‘Nobles.’_

“It matters! Of course it matters!” she hissed. They both shot a long glance to Elissa’s sleeping form. There were no signs she had been roused by their conversation. “She went out of her way to talk up my backwater Fereldan cousins as though I would know them. I thought she was just being funny, you know, peculiar. But maybe she was trying to remind me of the Amell family curse.”

“What are you talking about? What curse?” He blinked as she violently knotted her braid into place, in an asymmetrical bun below her right ear.

“You said yourself she needs coin. Papa is so devoted to his pious name,” Solona said with a scowl. “If he knew Mama had apostate relations flaunting themselves openly, he’d be horrified. He’d… Well I don’t know, but I think he’d pay to keep that quiet.”

“We’re your friends. We’d never blackmail your family.” Alistair winced. “But just in case, don’t repeat that to Sister Leliana.”

“Warden Alistair, I am not your friend. I am your pet mage, on loan from the Circle. Try to keep that distinction fresh in your mind.”

“You’re a Warden mage now. You’re under our protection until the end of the Blight, and no one can challenge that. If you’ll have us.” Alistair reached out to her crossed legs and patted the toe of her slipper. “Or you can go back to your Circle after we help Connor.”

“Don’t make any offers until you’ve heard everything,” she said in a bitter, quiet voice. “In the tower, only Irving knew it all. Cullen would have hated me.”

“Solona,” he hesitated, feeling uncomfortable with the direction this was going. “Maybe it would be better if you told Elissa instead.”

“No!” she insisted with startling emphasis. “You’re a templar. I’m familiar with templars.”

“Fine. Tell me about this family curse.” He prodded the fire. “I hope it’s a good one. I like a ghost story.”

“Nothing as interesting as all that.” But the furrow of her brow lessened with her smile. “Mama bore five children. All of them mages.”

“Maker’s breath!”

“Too much Tevene in the bloodline, I’ve sometimes thought,” she said. “Daylen, Elspeth, Katarina, my twin, Maxwell, and myself, Evelyn. Max and I were still babes-in-arms when Daylen, the favorite and heir, was ripped from her side and carted to the Kirkwall Gallows. Mama lost her mind. She spent her days in the gallery, begging for visits with her lost child. At home in Hightown, she would lock herself in her room, crying all night. One afternoon, she simply did not come back.”

“What happened to her?”

“I’ve never been told, actually. The Amell family name was all but ruined by then. First, cholera took the family heads, both lord and lady. I suppose they must be the kin of my Fereldan cousins. Then, Mama’s father passed penniless, and her brother was imprisoned for something-or-other. Papa took us back to his familial home in Ostwick. The Trevelyans called me by my second name, to distinguish me from Grandmama Evelyn.

“We had an estate, servants, fine dresses, Orlesian governesses, chocolates... They spoiled us to help us forget about Kirkwall. But one day I woke up and my sister Elsa was gone. Quietly banished to the Hasmal Circle, without a goodbye. The following season, Kat went to Starkhaven. I was pledged to the Ostwick monastery, as though the Maker might spare Max if a sacrifice was made. I remember what they taught us.” Her gaze turned distant in her recollection. “Mages are not people. Mages are living weapons. Mages are dangerous. I believed it. I had to, to understand how my siblings deserved to be taken from their home. I thought, when my thirteenth nameday came, I was free of it.” She sighed. “And then there was… an incident.”

“You said you set your bed on fire.”

“I did say. That’s the usual story. That’s not what happened.” She swallowed. “That day, they bundled me off to an isolated room with an unsympathetic matron and sent for Papa. In my memory, he came when it was still dark. Very, very early morning. Snow dripped from his cloak, leaving little puddles on the floor. His nightclothes were tucked into his breeches. I remember because I’d never seen him in such a state of undress. His beard had become streaked with silver while I was away. Even though he was still young, he looked very old. I was in such a state, I could not even cry. He looked me in the eye, sighed, and said, ‘ _Another one.’_ He turned away from me. But he spent considerable coin to send me to my Uncle Trevelyan in Ferelden, travelling with just one templar guard, under the pseudonym Lady Amell. It was kinder to me, for strangers not to know what I was and what I had been. I... did not appreciate that then. I only understood long after. Irving eventually discovered for me that Maxwell had been sent to Cumberland about two weeks before my powers manifested.”

Alistair sat in stunned silence for a long while, listening to the thrum of the insects around them in the darkness. “Do you get to see them?”

“Yes, a few times a year. But only after Papa inherited Grandpapa’s money. All of us used to get travel passes for Great-Aunt Lucille’s summer ball. And for Satinalia, and for Papa’s nameday. But Daylen hasn’t been in several years. The Knight-Commander in the Gallows has made travel more difficult. She must not be much like Greagoir.”

“Few are,” Alistair agreed darkly, wondering if Greagoir’s lax behavior had facilitated Uldred’s uprising. “What was your mother’s name?” Something was sticking out in his memory, something that Leandra had said.

“Oh. Revka. Lady Revka Amell.”

_“...The last time it was safe for her to write to me, she told me that her dear little Solona was taken to Irving. What sort of life is that, to never know your family?”_

Alistair squinted, trying to remember. “Your cousin Leandra called you Solona.”  
  
The mage was puzzled by the non sequitur. “Did she?”

“You said your name changed when you moved to Ostwick as a little girl. But Leandra had word from your mother that you had been sent to Irving. It’s why she kept Bethany away from the templars after her husband’s death.”

“Then Mama is still alive,” she replied softly. “Eh. Elsa and Kat always called her Ma _ma._ Revka. I never knew her. She abandoned us, the bitch.” She lapsed into silence for a moment, considering the embers of the pit. There was a kind of sadness and powerful disgust when she spoke of her mother. “When I was a little girl, I wanted to believe that she had ran away to be with Daylen. Not true, of course. If it was something tragic, Papa would have said. So it must have been something disgraceful.” A breath. “Alistair, what was your mother’s name?”

“I… Rhona. Just Rhona. She, um… She died, giving birth to me. That’s what they tell me, anyway. I wouldn’t remember. For the record, I don’t think your family is cursed.”

“Why not? Are you an expert on family curses?”

“Yes, I am,” Alistair said with a watery smile. “And as an expert on family curses, I am authorized to tell you that every family is equal parts fucked up. If she walked away from you, she was an idiot. And as Morrigan will tell you, I’m also an expert on idiots.”

“Thanks. So now that we know each other’s secrets, what do we do?”

“Drink,” he suggested. “Wardens drink.”

By the time Lissa woke for her shift of the watch, the former templar and the former Circle mage were well and truly sauced. Solona drank herself to sleep and Alistair just… drank. His mother was dead. She was never going to mysteriously re-emerge someday with a tale of why she left him behind. Her ashes were buried in the potter’s field outside the village, with no headstone, and no name. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that certainty, or envious of a life with hope. Which was better? Which was worse?

Better to be maudlin when very drunk, especially when a groggy Lissa offered her sweet lap, and her nimble hands to card through his hair. She did not ask why he was drinking. He had the suspicion that she already knew.

With the dawning of a yellow sun, their peace was interrupted by two very unexpected visitors— a pale-faced templar known as Cullen, and with him, a blood mage called Evelina.


	28. Intruders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is nsfw

* * *

The loud crunch of steel sabatons walking through the underbrush, crushing twigs and leaves with each step, started Alistair from his sleepy reverie. He shot up upright in place, lifting his head from his lover’s lap. “Easy,” murmured Elissa, as her fingers were displaced from his hair. “They’re friendly. The voices carried across the valley some minutes ago to mine ears.”

“Who?” he asked, trying to slow the pounding of his heart. A quick glance to his right confirmed that Solona’s blanket was still abandoned, left behind while the mage completed her waking ablutions.

“Who indeed?” Lissa replied with a solemn smile, and they helped each other stand up.

The answer to that question was answered but a moment later, as their humble party in the old hunter’s lean-to was greeted by a man in full templar finery and a woman in Circle robes. “Hail, Wardens!” called out Ser Cullen as he breached the clearing. “I must admit, I expected to track you much farther than this when we set out this morning.” He unslung a large rucksack from his shoulders, and dropped it with great gusto at his feet. “Where is the famous Warden stamina I’ve heard so much about?”

He dropped into a crouch and opened the bag, removing a loose sack of black velvet cloth to wrap around the object he was carrying. The strange, glinting thing in the palm of his hand looked like a small hourglass on a fine gold chain. Alistair knew at once what it must be.

Elissa grinned. “I left it behind when I saved your sorry arse.” She lifted her arms in a luxurious stretch, as though she hadn’t just spent her few miserable hours of sleep on the ground.

Cullen blushed. “Yes, er, I suppose you did.” He cleared his throat. “Did do that. Ahem.”

“I am called Evelina, my lady, if you don’t recall,” injected the woman, who stood behind the templar. “You remember, you offered me a place with your people, fighting the darkspawn.“

The mage Evelina reminded him nothing so much as a nervous horse, ready to spook at any moment. She had wild gray eyes which bulged slightly from their sockets as they darted across the Warden’s face, trying to read her. She was fine boned and petite, wore sturdy walking shoes under her skirts, and had her mousy brown hair tied in a practical tail at the nape of her neck. In her hands she carried a very plain, standard issue staff of average power— a training implement of the tower, perhaps.

Of all the blood mages they encountered in the fallen Circle, only one had thought to throw herself upon the mercy of the Grey Wardens. She and her friends had been swayed by Uldred’s compelling whispers, but there was no evidence that her collaborators had participated in the actual killings. In fact, they had been cowering in a locked room when they were discovered. But, fearful of the heavy hand of templar justice, and the execution which assuredly awaited them, the mage rebels had tried to fight their way out when confronted. All but one.

Alistair had acquiesced to sparing the woman, but there had been some rather heated back-and-forth between himself and Wynne as to whether she would be better off with the Chantry or the Wardens.

Elissa’s mouth crooked thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe I did. I suppose I thought you’d changed your mind.”

“No, my lady. I had to have permission from the Knight-Commander,” Evelina explained with an involuntary grimace. “Your good word helped me pass my interrogation.”

“Maker’s breath, it was an interview!” Cullen sighed. “A proper interrogation would have—”  
  
“You didn’t spend half the night tied to a chair, being poked to see if a demon might come out.”

“We can’t be too careful!”  
  
“Enough!” Lissa raised her hands to silence them. She’d been recently chewing her fingernails, and the thumb nail on her left hand was ragged. “Andraste knows I have had enough of _mages_ and _templars_ . If I ever have to enter a damned Circle again in my life, it will be too soon.” She rolled her shoulders. “Now Cullen, why are _you_ here?”

“Oh, isn’t it obvious?” Cullen said with surprise. The man’s ears were red, lending him the appearance of a chastised school boy.

“No.” She frowned deeply. Lissa never liked to feel she had missed something obvious.

“The Knight-Commander insisted I needed some fresh air. And he needed someone to deliver this mage to your custody. You have templars already in your service, yes?” Cullen nodded briskly to himself. “I have phylacteries to give your handlers,” he added, pointing to his bag.

“I shouldn’t have wondered how you could follow us,” said a new voice from a distance. Solona approached the camp from the lake side, wringing her damp hair between her fists. Her voice was cool, bordering icy. “How kind of you to bring my leash, Cullen.”

“Sola!” Cullen gasped, not so much in surprise, but in relief. He quickly corrected himself. “Good morning, Enchanter Amell. Yes, I have your… your phylactery. I’ve kept it safe.”

If looks could kill, the templar would have been struck dead by her glare. To his credit, he held up under the venomous expression. “How thoughtful,” she said, terribly softly. “But mine was in Denerim, not in the tower.”

“They brought them in the night.” Cullen sucked air between his teeth as he explained the unpleasant business. “The phylacteries of all Kinloch mages were brought from the Grand Cleric’s keeping, with the Rite of Annulment and the reinforcements. The bodies might be identified. Too many became…” He worried his cheek, and let his sentence hang in the air.

Alistair thought of bloated, blackened templar bodies, and pale corpses of little children, and twisted abominations, left to rot in the summer heat for over a week… He shivered, chasing those images away. Someone would have to make identifications. The phylacteries would ease the process.

“This was Greagoir’s doing? I suppose he’s afraid I’ll scarper from the Wardens.”

“No, it was mine.” Cullen’s voice rose sharply in pitch. “Let me explain. It’s for your own protection.”

“Oh, very good, it’s protection now, is it?” scoffed Solona.

“What if you were hurt fighting darkspawn, and got separated from the Wardens?”

“What if a dragon fell on my head?” She pushed the limp strings of her uncombed hair behind her shoulder, wetting the silk of her robes. “What then, Cullen? I liked it much better when that wretched device was very far away from me.”

“You shouldn’t even be out here!”

“No, _you_ shouldn’t be out here.” Her eyes suddenly filled up with angry tears. “You’re spoiling everything! Go away!” Furious with herself, she turned on her heel and fled back in the direction from which she’d come.

“Shouldn’t someone go after her?” Cullen asked in a pained voice, watching her retreating back.

“No,” Alistair advised. “Leave her be.”

“I don’t understand. You’d let a mage go off alone, unsupervised and emotional?”

“She’s a Warden mage now. We do things quite differently than you may be used to,” Lissa said sharply. “If anything would tempt her now, it would be an ex lover being a boor.”

“Ex lover? Is that what she told you?” Cullen sounded taken aback, and was loud about it.

Alistair said, “She doesn’t speak of you at all, actually.”

Cullen’s mouth fell closed with a snap.

Lissa shrugged. “What are your orders?”

“Yes, er… To see the mage Evelina to the Warden encampment in Redcliffe Village.”

“Fine. You may come with us as far as Redcliffe, Ser Cullen. And then you will leave us.”

* * *

 

It was hard to believe that this was the same place they had left just two weeks before. Where once there had been frightened silence and the flame of the pyre, Redcliffe Village now teemed with foot soldiers in piecemeal armament. Beyond them were a number of knights on glossy Fereldan Forders. The horses were magnificent, and sturdy beasts all; they were the local favorite by their practicality, as they were able to tolerate a plow or a man in full plate armor. It was a shame that most of their party would be uncomfortable on mounts of that size, Alistair thought wistfully, remembering the childhood joy of riding Dennet’s ponies.

To the left, a dwarven tradesman unpacked his caravan of wares onto a stone staircase, arranging swords and axes as though they were on display in a shop. He seemed to be only half-listening to Dwyn, who bellowed about the price of a small sack of white sugar. From a short distance, Alistair realized that most of the merchant’s stock was luxury goods, and he brightened at the idea of buying something special for Elissa. Fancy soap, or a pillow, or perhaps... Solona slapped him on the shoulder, startling him out of his plans. With a wide eyed look, she pointed to two red-headed women beneath the boughs of a massive tree. “Look at all the birds!” she gasped, dragging him closer.

“Birds?” he repeated with confusion. He squinted, attention drawn to the branches above Lissa and Leliana. “I don’t see any… Oh, birds!” He was unable to completely suppress the horror in his voice. The tree was alive with a swarm of black crows, shaking the leaves as they thrashed and squawked to each other. The black of their feathers blended them into the dark green canopy. Alistair shivered, picturing their horrid, naked faces and reptilian claws, like tiny dragons nesting, just waiting to swoop down—

“What… are you afraid of crows?” Solana asked with a curious poke. She’d been sullen and withdrawn in the last leg of their journey, but something about Redcliffe roused her spirits.

Color rose on Alistair’s cheeks. “No. They’re fine,” he said, clenching his jaw. “I’m just surprised? Before she only had the one, not a whole army…” Reluctantly, he followed the mage as they came within earshot of the other women.

“Where in Thedas did they all come from?” Elissa questioned, amazement written across her face. Apparently, she had similar thoughts. “Oh, just look at them all!”

“Behold! Bann Teagan’s contribution to the war effort,” announced Leliana, stretching her arms outward. She smiled faintly, which emphasized the puffy circles under her eyes. “The soldiers, too. Rainesfere brought their whole rookery, and the ones from Fort Connor.” The Orlesian woman was standing behind a well-appointed camp desk, with the usual _accoutrement—_  ink, quills, blotter, message canisters, bird treats, letter wax in Warden blue and deep crimson— as well as a metal box with a hefty lock on it. “We— Teagan and I— thought it wise to sheppard the refugees into the more defensible Redcliffe, now that the undead have fallen quiet.”

Leliana was not in her usual Chantry habit, but rather wearing her battle armor, which had been designed by an eccentric master armorsmith in Denerim. It was pink, for one thing, or rather, pink and black leather over a scale mail tunic of gleaming silverite. Designed for the flexibility required of an archer, it would never have stood against prolonged hand-to-hand combat, but that was not its purpose.

“There have been no more attacks?”

“None at all, my lady. The arlessa reports that the boy seems to be mostly himself, as long as no one but herself approaches the arl’s bedchamber. The demon is quiet.”

“Perhaps we’ve caught a break at last,” Lissa exhaled. “It’s about time. Kinloch was a damned disaster; I’ll debrief when we have the time.”

“Very good, Warden. As a sign of faith, Teagan has brought his own people here as well. Not only the military, but also the servants of his keep and the peasants of Rainesfere. Many people in the Hinterlands live isolated lives, but we are doing our best to reach out and invite as many as possible.”

“Is it wise? It will be like a city, Leli, but much worse,” said Lissa, pursing her lips. “The food and sanitation issues alone…”

“Redcliffe was built for long sieges,” Leliana replied, squaring her shoulders. “You wanted a supply line, and I’ve found you one. We have summoned the merchants to ascertain a fair price for local grain. The farmers will be paid, and small groups of calvary can drive bandits and darkspawn away from the granaries. Besides this, we still have access to the Bannorn through the lake. We can hold for at least a year, and then if we must, organize an evacuation northward.”

“You’ve thought this through,” Elissa conceded. “I assume you believe the horde will come this way.”

“Lothering has... “ Leliana hesitated, brushing aside some quills to reveal the map underneath. Someone had blackened a wide trail from the Kocari Wilds northward with watercolor paint. “Lothering has been torn to pieces. Redcliffe scouts report that many of the refugees could not get away in time.”

Elissa bowed her head. “Maker’s breath. Have you heard— has anyone heard if Madame Hawke’s family escaped? We could not convince her to leave without all her children.”

“No. I have tried my best, but... The reports are in chaos.” Leliana’s cornflower blue eyes swam, and she crossed her arms.

Alistair grimaced, remembering their friends from Lothering, and was stung by a flare of shame as he recalled his behavior in their home. He’d been so preoccupied with apostasy, when he should have been convincing them to run. “Morrigan will be upset,” he commented, watching Solona out of the corner of his eye for her reaction. He nearly missed the change that came over Leliana.

Her cheeks flushed in anger. “Morrigan?” snapped Leliana. “Bethany was my—” She jolted, literally biting her tongue to stop herself from finishing her outburst. “She was my friend, too. Forgive me, Alistair, I have had very little sleep since you left for the Circle. I am not my usual self.” He saw a flicker of blood in her mouth. “I had many friends in Lothering. I considered it to be my home.”

“You’re forgiven,” Elissa assured her quickly, before Alistair could collect himself. “I understand. How is Morrigan? Was Wynne able to help her?”

What had Leliana been about to say? Secrets, built upon lies… He resolved to press Lissa in a private moment for the truth.

“Morrigan is recovering, if you would like to see her. The senior mage you sent from the Circle has been such a mercy, healing everyone in her path. The First Enchanter has been with her every step, squeezing hands and mending bones. Irving is… not what I expected, I must admit. He is very good with the little children. In another life, he would have been an excellent brother.” Despite her self-inflicted injury, Leliana prattled smoothly as usual, never giving it away in her speech. Alistair began to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. “Who is this woman with you? Another friend from the Circle of Magi?”

Elissa tsked, stepping aside to allow their newest companion a forward place. “Where are my manners? I would like you to meet Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, lately of the Kinloch Circle, Enchanter and a distant relation to the Hawkes.”

Solona rolled her eyes, lightly, with an affable smile pasted over her previously grim expression. “Oh, honestly. You don’t need to call me a lady; we don’t keep our titles in the Circle.” She stuck out her hand like a Marcher, to shake. “Solona, please. Almost nobody uses my given name. Horrible how it rhymes, yes? You must be Sister Leliana. I’ve heard only good things, I promise. My condolences. It sounds like you were a true friend to these Fereldan cousins of mine. Never knew I had them until the Warden told me about them.”

Liliana delicately shook the offered hand, tilting her head in curiousity. Under a glacial exterior, she was practically bursting with questions. “No, it is I who should be sorry. Trevelyan? That is a noble house in the Free Marches, yes?”

“In Ostwick. A minor house, and my position is moreso. My papa is our head; his older brother could not do the duty. I am the youngest of five. As for my mother...” She stuck her hands in the pockets of her robes, slumping her broad shoulders. “That will be House Amell— save you the trouble of looking it up— like, what was it, Lena?”

 _‘She knows the name. Why pretend she doesn’t?’_ Alistair wondered.

“Lady Leandra,” Lissa answered.

“Yes, I thought it was an L-something,” Solona said offhandedly. Her dark eyes glittered behind black lashes. “One of Mama’s cousins. I’m afraid I feel like I’ve been repeating my life story to everyone I meet. Is that the usual Fereldan custom?”

“What fraternity do you belong to?” Leliana asked.

Solona raised her eyebrows. “Aequitarian. But only because I had to choose something when they made me an enchanter. Will you be investigating my Circle politics?”

“No,” said Elissa, precisely as Leliana answered, “Yes.”

“Did Senior Enchanter Wynne get this treatment, too?”

“Yes,” said Leliana again, mildly. “But her allegiances are a known thing. We know why she has come. But you have not said.”

“I might point out that you have not asked.”

“We know you had the opportunity to escape the Circle several months ago, but did not take it. We also know you were offered a position in the Grey Wardens by Duncan, but did not take that either. But you come now, after Uldred’s plot was foiled.”

“Maker’s breath!” Solona exhaled. “Were you just pretending not to know about me? I suppose Wynne told you I’m accused of consorting with maleficar?”

“Knight-Commander Greagoir arrested you for the crime. Another girl was sentenced to prison immediately. Did you use your family’s influence to protect you?”  
  
“Leli, not so loud,” Lissa warned. “She fought as hard as the rest of us against Uldred. She even saved my life.”

“Elissa, we trust your judgment, implicitly,” Leliana soothed. “I just like to know who I’m working with,” she added, with a smile like a shark smelling blood. “She was a friend to an agent of Loghain. How can you really know—”

“Not here, not now,” Elissa interrupted, shaking her head. “Not in the open. Later. Before we complete the ritual in the castle with Wynne and Irving. I’m sure Leliana needs to lecture me on this truly tremendous pile of correspondence. Alistair, why don’t you take Solona and check in on Morrigan?”

The bard zeroed in on Elissa with sharp focus, to the degree that everyone else became invisible before her. “You were right,” she said. “We got a reply back from Caer Oswin yesterday. It needs your immediate attention.”

“Is it a summons?”

“An invitation, I think.”

“How was it addressed?” Elissa asked, accepting a quarter-folded sheet of expensive stationary, and gently unfolding it.

“Just to _The Lady Cousland_.”

Their leader hummed thoughtfully, and began to scan the brief letter. “Interesting.”

“Yes,” continued Leliana, “I thought it unusual myself that it was neither _teyrna_ nor _warden_ , but I wanted your reaction.”

They were dismissed, whether they wanted to be or not.

“I think my Harrowing was gentler. Is she always like that?” Solona questioned, taking slightly unsteady breaths as Alistair guided her away.

“Sometimes worse,” he chuckled. “Don’t take it hard. She does that to everyone.”

“I thank you for your warning. I’m out of practice with the way nobles _play_. Papa was never much for the Game, but Great-Aunt Lucille tried her best to give us an education.”

“Is that what you’d call that? The Game?”

“A very poor showing. The Sister knows everything about me, and I know nothing about her. But if it was really the _Grand Game_ , she’d never have laid all her cards out like that, in open accusation. She would have told her mistress in private, and been false-friendly to my face.”

“Sweet Andraste. So when she’s nasty, she’s being nice?”

“Don’t be so Fereldan, Alistair,” she giggled, making it sound like a gentle tease, and grinned at his bewildered expression. “I’ll call it a victory. She didn’t know to say anything about Cullen.”

* * *

 

Ser Cullen Rutherford was a dull shadow in their wake. He did not walk with them, nor did he ever really let them get out of eyesight, like he was watching for something. Poor fool. He seemed to occupy his time by arguing with himself under his breath, sometimes almost working up the nerve to say something aloud, but when he would meet his former paramour’s gaze, he would stiffen and fall silent.

Out in the proper midday sun, Cullen’s hair was sandy blonde and curly, but his eyebrows and stubbled beard were a dark brown. His skin was quite pale, as only a man who lived wholly indoors could have, overcast by a grayish pallor which suggested he had some lingering sickness from the torture. Although he must have been about Alistair’s age, Cullen’s eyes made him seem much older, as they were creased and lined with worry, and rimmed red. His eyes were similar in color to Alistair’s— amber brown— though Cullen’s were a few shades lighter, like a golden ale. He was a well built man, more muscled than most and with nice posture, but most women noticed first that he was a jumpy fellow. His hands spasmed, and he tried to keep them steady by resting them on the pommel of his sword. This unfortunately gave the impression that he was reaching for his weapon with every nervous twitch.

Alistair didn’t care for the way Cullen made Solona’s mouth turn down in the corners, and had looked forward to the templar leaving, but he just sort of… seemed to stay. He was another local boy, from the western village of Honnleath, which was under Bann Teagan’s rule, and he knew some of the knights who now populated Redcliffe. What’s more, he had a keen fascination with the tactics of siege, and at Leliana’s invitation, joined her and Teagan in the task of shoring Redcliffe’s defences.

Evelina, who as it turned out was a sweet if dreamy-minded and impractical sort of woman— the product of her upbringing in a Circle— joined some of the refugee mothers in minding the orphans. In the Circle, she’d been a librarian, not a teacher, but now one never found her without a boy on her knee. She’d traded her robes for a simple dress of butternut brown; only a few knew of her magical status.

Solona joined Wynne and Irving in the castle, calculating the complexities of the ritual which would send a mage into Connor’s portion of the Fade. With Morrigan still recuperating from her near-fatal injury, Solona had volunteered to confront the demon herself.

Elissa was often busy until the wee hours of the morning, writing letters and making notes in her journal. Bereft of his companion, Alistair found himself wandering from task to task. Sometimes he rode out on patrol to keep the darkspawn incursion at bay. Many of the men garrisoned at Fort Connor were farmers turned soldier who had never dreamed of seeing darkspawn in their lifetimes, and took comfort from the presence of a seasoned Grey Warden. At least he could be useful with his Warden sense. Other times, he helped Addy with her tasks as healer, lifting bedridden bodies so they did not develop sores, and carrying heavy buckets of water so they could be washed. Strong hands were in short supply, and he always went to bed so bone-tired that he didn’t dream at all.

One such evening, after sundown, he came to visit Morrigan. The witch kept herself occupied in bed by sewing, as dressmaking was one of her particular joys, and by hollering abuse at anyone who dared get in ear’s reach of her private tent. He’d wanted to see her progress on Lissa’s new costume. Unfortunately for Alistair, Sten had gotten to her first, which meant putting up with them both.

“Your tamassrans failed. You do not know yourself.”

“I... actually agree with you there.”

“You could be better as viddathari. You need not be like the chaff, bending to every wind.”

“How poetic,” Alistair laughed. “What do you mean ‘could’? Don’t all you Qunari want to force us to convert?”

“I am not Ben-Hassrath,” Sten scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You know that the Warden will not find your purpose for you.”

“She has a name, you know.”

“And so I use it. In the Qun, we call things what they are. She is the Warden.”

“And me?”

Sten seemed to deliberate in his head. “ _Basvaarad_ ,” he pronounced.

Morrigan made an irritated noise. “He means templar. A _bas_ who controls mages.”

“I’m not!” Alistair said, folding his arms. Having to repeat it so many times was beginning to make it ring hollow. “Not anymore.”

“Deny your duty if you must. It will not change what you are. The other accepts his role.”

“Morrigan, I don’t know how you put up with this!” he exclaimed, feeling defeated. “It’s ridiculous. It’s like talking to a stone wall.”

“Better than a stone wall than a hayseed,” she said grouchily. She struck the needle through the thickness of the material and set her project down. Her hands were white and small over the coverlet. Her face was like a moon, he thought, pale and sunken. Morrigan had been just a breath away from death, and had a thick, ropey scar on her belly to prove it. “Good evening, Alistair.”

“Good evening, Morrigan,” he agreed, rising and scuffing a short, lazy bow. Alistair passed through the flaps of the tent, but found himself pausing outside the door, where they could not see him.

Morrigan’s gold eyes flashed fire. She said in a heated voice, “Alistair has shown respect to your customs. Your Arishok would not have sent you here if you could not respect ours.”

Inexplicably, Sten deflated slightly under her scolding. “The Arishok does not—”

“Do not change the subject,” she snapped, cutting him off. “You are better than this. You know very well that Alistair has forsworn that title. If you cannot determine what honorific you should call him, the acceptable alternative for an Andrastian is the name bestowed at birth.”

“Surely that dishonors him? He is no longer imekari.”

“This is how t’is done.”

“I do not think I can. It is too strange.”

“I know what it is to be a stranger in a strange land. Adapt, or you will never be understood.”

“Parshaara,” he rumbled, wishing the argument over.

Morrigan was not so easily brushed aside. “Then you would call me _saarebas_?"

Sten shook his head. He leaned forward, covering her hand with his own. Her fingers looked tiny intertwined with his enormous hand. “Kasaanda,” he said, with strange softness. “Kadan.”

Alistair stepped away, feeling as though he was dangerously close to spying on something far too private.

“How is she?” asked a voice in the darkness.

“She’s our Morrigan. She will be fine,” he dismissed, feeling a touch of fondness, and then feeling irritated with himself for having any positive emotions toward the witch. “And how are you, Lissie? I never get to see you.”

“Up to my eyeballs, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to negotiate passage into Orzammar and it’s maddening. Bodahn says they won’t let Surfacers down while they deliberate over their new king. I’m not sure what the problem is. His majesty had a son, legitimate and recognized and whatnot, but they’re dithering… What do you know about dwarves?” she asked as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

“Nothing, I’m afraid. Bodahn will have to do for your advisor on all things dwarf.”

“I don’t mind. I rather like him. He’s got a coffee supplier, bless him.”

They walked on in the dark, toward the place she called both home and headquarters. It had once belonged to Kaitlyn and Bevin, but she had rented it from them for a generous sum, and with this money they had arranged transport to the capital. It was one of the nicest homes in Redcliffe left standing after the fire, and boasted an upstairs with two bedrooms. Leliana had the second room to share with Solona.

In theory, Alistair and Cullen had the kitchen hearth, but in practice Alistair shared the bed in Elissa’s room. It was fortunate he had another place; Cullen’s night terrors were so terrible that even Adelaide's sleeping tonic failed to diminish them.

Each night Solona cast her muffling charm across the stairs and went to sit them out beside his thrashing form. She’d forbidden anyone else from having a turn. Nor were they allowed to mention it to him.

Alistair lingered with Lissa outside the door, stroking her hair and pretending, just for a moment, that they were just normal people stealing time in the darkness. She fumbled in her pocket for the key, and suddenly he felt compelled to kiss her. He leaned down and her throat made a noise of happy surprise. His mouth slanted against hers, working her soft bottom lip between his own until he drew out a little moan. She opened her mouth and quick as a flash, gave a cheeky lick of her tongue against his top lip, curling it so it hooked him. He opened his mouth to deepen the kiss and got lost in the blurry edges between where he ended and she began.

Her hand slid down his shirt, down to teasingly trace the edge of his breeches. He groaned in anticipation as her fingers brushed close to his manhood. She kissed him harder, wrapping her second hand in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Lissa broke the kiss with a wet sound, angling her body against his, and whispered against his mouth, “Do you smell that?” Confused, he started to pull away, but she held him tighter. “You’ll tip them off,” she said in a languid voice, but the waves of tense anticipation in the lines of her body and thrumming across the soulbond set his heart racing.

He inhaled. He smelled something quite distinct, a odor he’d only missed because he associated it with Lissa already. Charcoal and ozone, fire and lightning. The invisibility powders of an assassin. “Where?” he mouthed. She nodded, hooking her knee around his waist. Her center pressed against his length and he gave a strangled groan, barely able to focus as she drew her hip knife and angled it in her hand facing behind her.

She kissed him, sweetly and sorrowfully. He flinched when he saw the blur manifest behind her but she’d already struck, had driven her knife upward, slipping under the ribs and into the heart. The assassin crumpled with a wet gurgle and expired.

“That was too close!” Alistair shouted. He released his hold on her thigh, though his cock gave a regretful throb as her heat receded.

“Come, there will be more,” she said in an excited voice, cheeks flushed with the thrill of survival. “That was a professional. I’d say, maybe even an Antivan Crow.”


	29. Assassin

They dashed pell-mell into the darkness, down the twisted alleys and wooden platforms which served as pathways between the buildings on this side of Redcliffe. On the shoreline, the houses hovered, built up on spindly stilts. From Lake Calenhad, they looked like black gulls’ legs standing on the pebbled beach. When high tide came, the filmy brown waters rolled under the huts. The feet of the piers were peppered with mussels, as if a hundred shiny black eyes were clumped together between the red tufts of spindleweed. 

Elissa was a flash, merely a glimpse of white blouse ahead of him, darting around the sharp corners and obstacles— fish drying racks, barrels, nets hung for mending, old crates— with breathless ease. She was a natural born sprinter, and if she’d really been trying to elude him, she’d be gone. Alistair caught up to her behind the abandoned general store, skidding to a halt in his heavy boots. She stood still as a statue.

“Hear that?” she asked. The moon reflected some light off the fabric of her linen shirt, but it was still quite dark, and her face was wreathed in shadows.

“No,” he answered honestly, pressing his right hand against his ribs. He could only hear his own blood pumping in his ears, and the sound of his loud breaths sucking in his lungs. Still, he was not nearly as winded as he would have been two months ago. His stamina must have been increasing, from all the marching and killing things and running for his life. In whichever order you liked.

Lissa nodded. “Exactly.” She obliged his heavy breathing by carrying on: “I needed to see if anyone would give chase. Our opponents are obscured.”

He tapped his foot on the old wooden planks beneath them, understanding. The warped boards creaked under the shift in his weight. “We went where we could hear them. Where nobody could sneak up on us.”

 She looked doubtfully off the edge of the rail and down to the beach. “Perhaps they still could, if they scaled the pillar below us. But I find that unlikely. I doubled back.”

“I noticed,” he said with a beleaguered grin. “I thought we were going to chase _them_.”

“I still intend to.” Lissa wiped sweat away from where it beaded on her temple. The absent-minded gesture left streak of crimson on her face. The palm of her hand and all her fingers were sticky with fresh blood. “The first move was defensive. I’d rather not alert the guard if we can manage it.” She grimaced when she noticed her hand, and yanked her yellow scarf from its place about her throat to clean up. “Such green lads. The regulars were all killed in the fighting.”

“We didn’t encounter the patrol. If we know the route, so might they,” he observed.

“I had that thought. We might be on the lookout for a dead guardsman, I’m afraid. Someone whose body might be concealed behind a convenient barrel.”

“He could still be alive.”

“That would be rather sloppy.” She regarded him solemnly. “If we sound the alarm we might save the man. But we will lose our opportunity.”

“Won’t they be gone by now, whoever it is?”

“Death is, after all, a message, and messages are meant to be received,” she answered flatly. Her eyes shifted up and to the left as she recalled the line from memory.

“I didn’t think you were the kind of person who quoted things. What’s that from then?”

“A book. _Of Granting Death_ , I think it was called. I borrowed it off of Nathaniel when we were— you know— and I kept it for a long sea voyage. I never did give it back. He went to Starkhaven, and I to Val Royeaux.”

“Sounds like a very dreary book,” he said, cupping her face. He rubbed the smear of blood on her cheek away with his thumb.

“It was. Quite ghastly, unsuitable for a lady.”

“Which means you read it twice.”

“Oh, at least. I wonder why I’m thinking of it now. There was something… I think it went, ‘It is paramount that the arrival remain secret, not the result. They know what may come, but never when—until the answer is "now" and there is naught they can do but receive.’” She shook her head. “They will not go. The surprise is spoiled, but they will have to rally before we do. The two of us, alone, unaided— that might not happen again after tonight.”

Alistair hooked his thumb in his belt, where the scabbard usually rested on his hip. “I’ve just remembered I don’t have my sword. I’d forgotten I was working in the hospital today with Marla. It gets in the way.” He swallowed, suddenly feeling naked, like he was having one of those dreams with no breaches.

The rogue reached up over her shoulder and pulled out one of her paired daggers. “Here, take this,” she offered. She gave him one of those brilliant, twisted smiles which made his stomach feel hot. “Consider it a loan.” She practically thrust it into his hand. “I know what it’s like to be unarmed in a crisis.”

"You're still thinking of the sword you lost at Ostagar?"

"What can I say?" she shrugged, uneasy. "I fled Highever barefoot you know, in my dressing gown, with only my great-grandfather's sword in my hand. It wasn't the best sword, or the most expensive, but... It's the only thing I had of home." She shook her head. "Stupid sentiment. I don't miss the sword. It's all the rest."

Alistair took her dagger, trying the weight in his hand. It was heavier than it looked, and the balance was quite different than what he was accustomed to. The dagger was small, flexible, and felt strange in a hand more used to a larger sword. It was a thrusting weapon, a stabbing weapon, an offensive weapon for close quarters combat, though he had seen her throw it with deadly accuracy. In her hands, it was an instrument of death. He felt clumsy just holding it. Oddly intimate, like he was holding a piece of her body. It was still warm from her body heat. “I shouldn’t. Won’t it put you at a disadvantage, if you don’t have both?”

“It would be much worse for me if I felt I needed to protect you. Can you manage with it?”

He gave an experimental jab in the air. “Yes,” he decided. “Do you have a plan?”

She chuckled grimly. “Half of one. Tell me, was Morrigan awake when you left her?”

* * *

A light shimmer of frost licked across the warm earth, forming and melting as soon as it materialized. In the air, clumps of snowflakes blurred the world, falling like a pale curtain over the village. An unnatural summer snowstorm, courtesy of one bedbound apostate.

Neither of them was wearing any sort of armor. Elissa had her linen shirt and deerskin trousers, and Alistair had his Warden breeches and the woolen shirt he still mentally assigned to Carver Hawke. Both were streaked in splashes of blood.

Elissa walked very softly, breathing lightly, and moving slowly. Cat-like and coiled to pounce. Flakes collected white in her red hair and dripped down the back of her bare neck. Alistair tried to mimic the way she moved, hunting in the night for a very dangerous sort of prey. She held fast to his hand, warm flesh pressed against warm flesh. So tight he could nearly count every callus on the creases of her fingers. They were meant to be bait, but they were not about to make it easy.

Two squeezes, hard, sharp. Somewhere, someone was following them. He pictured what he had not seen— an invisible shape, twisting the lines of the snow. He clutched back once, feeling the rise of tense anticipation. Thrice now they had grappled with these strange enemies, all elves dressed like ordinary peasants, and thrice they had killed them before any could be interrogated. Lissa was getting frustrated.

There had only been a moment to brief their friends. Sten was to maintain the security of Morrigan’s tent at all costs. The witch, delighted to have action again after so much recuperation, was to cast a blizzard until her mana ran dry. With careful modulation of her magic, and several vials of lyrium, Morrigan had managed to keep the storm going constantly for the better part of an hour. It was losing its density and temperature, though, and it was clear that the spell was waning.

A ghost of motion in the frost. Footsteps splashed in fresh mud, revealing the camouflaged predator.

“I see you,” Elissa called out, breaking the silence. She contrived to speak in an affected voice, friendly and calm. It set Alistair's nerves on edge. It was the sort of voice she used before killing bandits. “Why don’t you take off your mask and face me properly?”

A laugh in the shadows. “You are more clever than the stories give credit, Warden. No one told me you were trained in the art. But I think we both know that your mage is getting tired.” It was a strange accent, lilting and lyrical and distinctly Antivan. “And your friend is not so fast and clever with a blade as you or I.”

“Hey!” Alistair grumbled. “That’s not very nice.” He held the dagger in his right hand even tighter, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Where was the voice? He had to be very close.

“If this is about the bounty on Grey Wardens, I’m sure we could work something out.” Another strangely jovial laugh. Lissa pivoted toward the sound, unconsciously dragging Alistair into a place behind her. Her free hand crept up his arm, pressing him back. “Not the bounty then. I didn’t think so. Have you come to answer my advertisement for a Crow? No, didn’t think so either. How much is the going rate these days?”

“A Rendon Howe paid the purse,” offered the bodiless voice. “If it helps, it was quite handsome. You can die knowing you were valuable.”

“I imagine Rendon keeps an account with your master,” Lissa said tightly, and her smile was a little more like a sneer. “Would you believe he had a hand in the particulars of my training?”

Step. Pivot. He was circling them. Soft footsteps in the snow.

“What an interesting coincidence.”

“Not really. He was my father’s spymaster, when such a thing was necessary. Da liked to keep his hands clean.” She sniffed.

“But you are much more hands on. And much more beautiful than Howe.”

“I am,” she agreed. “I’ve killed three of your people tonight. Must it be four?”

“You can try to bargain. People usually do,” said the amused stranger.

Alistair felt a strange tickle on the back of his neck. It took him a moment to realize that the sensation was warm breath. Then something hot, a pain in his lower back. It reminded him of holding his fingers too close to the flame of a candle. Quick, burning pain. He jerked, gasping, and turned toward the source. 

At the sound Lissa whirled, launching herself bodily into the empty air. But it wasn’t empty air at all. It was a strange elf, dressed in immaculate black.

She landed a blow on his unveiled face. It was a hard hit, but the elf rolled his head back with the blow, relaxing his neck muscles to accept her momentum. Her second strike bowled them both to the ground. They rolled in the muddy earth, equally matched for each other, a figure in black and a figure in white. He punched out at her bad shoulder. She groaned. Sensing the weakness the elf grabbed and pulled from the elbow. With a scream her left arm went lifeless, dislocated, and she dropped her dagger. A second strike split her mouth open.

Alistair felt his legs go cold.

She spat blood in the elf's handsome face, eyes blazing with anger. The Warden grappled with her thighs and rolled sharply, pinning him heavily at his chest. In the chaos she'd found the knife in her boot. He lurched to block it but she raked it across his forearm, slicing through the cloth armor. The elf swore in his native tongue in alarm and she brought the weight of the blade down against his throat. A fine line of red trickled under her hands, waiting for the pressure that would open the artery.

“Lissa!” Alistair croaked. His mouth tasted of ash.

She looked down, studying the stranger. “You should hear my offer,” Lissa suggested, holding very still, so still that snow dusted her eyelashes. Her enemy's dagger was pointed firmly against her ribs; her injured arm swung limp and useless on that side. A standoff.

His big eyes widened. “You wish to negotiate?” asked the man, licking his lips. The assassin had a facial tattoo, but it didn’t appear to be Dalish. His hood was ornamented with a sort of silvery beak. He had a broad, stocky chest under her tense thighs, suggesting powerful muscles concealed by his wiry frame. “How— how unexpected. You should know first that my blade is poisoned.”

"How poisoned?"

"Fast paralysis, slow death."

 _'Why can't I move?'_ Alistair thought.

“Effective." It was nearly a compliment. "You could kill me,” she admitted, voice like ice. “I might kill you. But Alistair _will_ kill you, before you can pry my corpse off your belly.”

“Maker’s sake, Lissa,” Alistair heard himself babbling.

“The junior Warden?” he asked, calculating. “I might take my chances. He looks the nervous type.”

“You would be mistaken. He's a templar."

“I get the feeling that some of the details were left out of this assignment,” complained the Antivan. “How do I know you would not kill me the moment I release you?”

“That would be a waste.”

" _Lis..._ "

“A sound argument, if I ever heard one. I am Zevran. Zev to my friends. I don't suppose you might move your blade, so I can swallow?"

"No."

"Fair enough." The gash on his arm was bleeding heavily, spilling onto the grass. His brown skin was beginning take on a shade of gray.

She locked eyes with him. “I’ve recently come into a particular sort of need.”

“The sort of need for which one hires a Crow?”

“Quite. I’m looking for an expert on foreign poisons.”

“That is a very peculiar need for a Grey Warden.”

“You’d better sing for your supper, Zevran. Tell me what you know.”

“I know eleven varieties of poisons, and their unique antidotes. And four more which cannot be cured by any means. I also know the Guildmasters feel that only a united Ferelden can stop this Blight. They believe your Hero of the River Dane to be the best leader.”

“Hmm. I don’t much care if Antiva opposes the civil war. Kill me and make a martyr. The war will come regardless.”

“You’re lying, my dear. I know of the meeting at Oswin.”

She lowered her knife from his throat. A red ribbon was left on his skin. “You’ve been reading my correspondence.” She looked thoughtful, then slid off of his chest with a hiss. Now that the adrenaline began to fade, both found themselves too injured to carry on with their scuffle.

Zevran scrabbled into a seated position, clutching his wound against his stomach as he tried to staunch the flow of blood. “I have been here a week. No one notices a few more elves. Your Leliana should screen her refugees more carefully. My intention was to ambush you quietly, on the road, but my friends grew impatient.”

“You should screen your friends more carefully.”

“That is good advice.” He grinned. “I met this Loghain in your capital. Rather taciturn fellow. But his friend, Rendon Howe, he likes to talk. I can be very sympathetic, very nice to talk to. He forgets that I am not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service. I was not paid for my silence.”

“Is that so?” she said doubtfully.

“Howe spoke loudly and often about his hatred for the Couslands. Your survival challenges his claim on your family lands. He plans on using a son of the family to legitimize his coup. I believe that he keeps this man in a prison.” He read something on her face. "This means something to you? I do not have a name. Howe called him ‘that bastard’. There is more like that, if it is useful.”

“How much for the rest of what you know?”

Zevran hesitated. “Here’s the thing— if I do not slay both Wardens, my life is forfeit to the Crows. They will kill me if I return home. You, or your lovely Alistair, or your other very dangerous friends will certainly kill me if I move against you again.”

“Lissa?” mouthed Alistair. Their voices sounded strange, like he was listening from under the lake. He could not feel his legs.  _'I think I'm poisoned. Yes, definitely poisoned. What do I do? She doesn't seem to hear me. Maker, the flames, the ice...'_

“I like living, and you are a capable woman who can think of many uses for a Crow, I think. So, let me serve you instead.”

“How can we know you will not turn on us?”

“You cannot, as such, this is true. But perhaps I do not want to be a Crow any longer. I wasn’t given much of a choice. The Crows bought me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I’m led to believe.”

This gave her pause. “Are you a slave?”

“They would not see it as such. A Crow lives very comfortably— all his vices attended to, be they wine, women, men, whatever you happen to fancy. Not at all like Tevinter slaves. And I enjoy the work, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not the kind of business where one lives to a comfortable old age. The severance package is garbage.”

“Grey Wardens aren’t in the habit of dying in their beds, either,” she said. "Or so I'm told."

“Then perhaps I will die anyway, but I will take probable death over certain death any day. You seem like the kind of people who take that kind of chance.” Zevran paused for a moment, looking very serious for the first time. “I think we should speak more. But not in such a compromising way. Time is wasting away for your friend."

"What?" She jerked her head. "Alistair?"

He was falling, sinking down onto his knees in the soft earth. "My back..." he muttered inaudibly. "...fire..." His slack hands settled limply in his lap. Sweat poured off of him, soaking through his shirt, like he was in the grip of a terrible fever.

"What have you done?" She was up and moving toward him. "WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY?!" she screamed.

"For insurance," Zevran answered, confused. It was obvious to him. He hopped to his feet and wobbled, woozy from blood loss. "We were negotiating, no? I have the cure, of course."

"His life was NEVER part of our deal!" she snarled. Then she was on her knees before him, clutching his face. "Alistair, can you hear me? Maker's breath, he's so pale. —Now, Zevran, not later, not when you please, NOW— Andraste help me, I will have you drawn and quartered for regicide!"

"Regicide?" sputtered Zevran, truly surprised for the first time. "No one said anything about kingslaying. I was not paid nearly enough for that... well actually, I was not paid at all, but still—"

Her face loomed large in his vision, white as a sheet. Her eyes glistened wetly and her nose was red from crying. Her split lip was still oozing blood. "Sweetheart, say something. Please. I'm sorry. I should have— Tunnel vision, remember, you always say I get..." There was a weight on his chest, snuffing out his breath. She seemed to grow darker around the edges, and then he felt himself falling from a great height into a bottomless abyss. "...Alistair...?"

 


	30. Fall

The pain was exquisite. Bright, brilliant, crystalline pain, as each nerve came singing back to life. He had been mistaken. The thick, sweet blanket of numb poison was a blessing, not a curse, and in its absence, everything stood out in too-sharp contrast. Fire in his spine and ice in his lungs.

Someone was screaming. Distantly, he became aware that the sound was his own voice. Shattered, begging. His throat was stripped raw. How long had it been? Longer than consciousness.

“Do something for him,” insisted Elissa, very far away— or very close. Distance was meaningless, impossible. Her voice resonated in his skull. A cool hand pressed against his fevered brow, and travelled aimlessly down, stroking his cheek. She was vibrating— no— she was shaking like a leaf.

“An anesthetic might weaken the antidote,” someone answered. Stern. Familiar. Angry? “I can’t risk anything, milady.” Adelaide.

And Wynne. “You are not well yourself, Warden. You should come away and rest. We will watch over him.”

“No.” As he became aware of himself again, he felt the body wrapped around him, cradling him. His head lolled against the crook of her neck. “I can’t. I literally—” a strangled noise, “—cannot. The- the- the- magic, the bind, it won’t let me.” There was a fine edge of desperate in her voice, a quick sort of panic he’d heard twice before— in Ostagar, with his ribcage smashed to pieces by an ogre, and in the village, with his head bashed in by the undead. He was hurt— badly— and she was frightened.

He felt his body in separate pieces, each part of him like a puppet on broken strings. Leg here, arm there, severed from each other. His spine arched sharply, his back the curve of her bow, and still she held him against the forces conspiring to rip him to pieces.

“The what?” asked Addy. “What magic?  _ Bind? _ ”

“An ancient curse, Imperial in origin,” Wynne explained tersely. “I believe Amell referred to as a soulbond, though there are other names. It has made her irrational.”

Lissa snarled. “I’m not! The last time he was hurt and we were apart I—”

“You were made very ill,” Adelaide concluded briskly. “I remember.  _ Nas'hasathe, Nas’saota… ir abelas _ ,  _ mala suledin nadas _ Alistair,” she muttered under her breath. “That magic is not Tevene. It is Elvhen. That is Asha'bellanar’s work.”

“You are neither Dalish nor a mage,” Wynne objected. “What could you possibly know?”

Adelaide was vexed by the interruption. “I am the daughter of an elf-blooded apostate and a Redcliffe court enchanter. I know what I’m on about. Not all magic is kept locked up in Circles. Magic runs wild in Redcliffe.”

“And look what that’s gotten you— a possessed child on the throne.”

“Stop it, both of you. What does it even matter?” Lissa shouted— whispered— sound distorted with the onset of another fit. “ _ Listen _ to him.” Her voice cracked. “If you can’t help him, just get the fuck out, the both of you! Get me Morrigan and that damned Antivan.” 

She jerked, throwing something from off the side table, which exploded with a tinkling crash against the wall. Glass. A potion vial, maybe. Her left arm was crooked against her chest, pressing against his back, in a sling. Her breath smelled strongly, of wine and elfroot. It was agony to hold him when her shoulder was dislocated

_ and there was an arrow in her throat. “Hurry, girl,” ordered Flemeth. Her hands were coated to the elbows in blood so red it was nearly black. Her fingers thrummed, vibrating blue with healing magic. It swirled around her wrists. _

_ “Mother, what is the point in this? The woman is dead. The man is as good as dead.” Morrigan painted bloody shapes— runes— across bare flesh with her index finger. The corpse she decorated had blue lips, and where the arrow had been yanked away, a torn out hole gaping like a red rose against chalky skin. A river of dried blood, brown and clotted, ran down the front of her exposed chest. “Are we to be necromancers now?” She consulted the worn, yellowed pages of the book she copied, trying to get the placement correct. _

_ Sightless, glazed green eyes stared at him. A sheen of magic across the skin held the body uncorrupted— frozen in the moment of death. She was still warm, caught in her last gasping breath. _

_ “Be quiet. Work faster.” _

_ “If you are being suddenly charitable, I am sure there are many living people still on the battlefield who might be grateful for your magic.” _

_ “Morrigan!” The witch reprimanded in an acidic voice. _

_ “Make me understand. I need to know. Do not shut me out, Mother, when I want to learn. Why these two?” _

_ Flemeth frowned, throwing more weight behind her spell. “I made a promise to this one’s father. Blood for blood. He held up his side of our bargain. I could not reach his brother. Even I am limited against the darkspawn. But I must try.” _

_ “I see.” There were lines around her golden eyes as she squinted in thought, considering her mother’s words. “If a debt is owed to the blood of the son, why use this spell? Why bind him to a dead woman? What use is she to us?” _

_ “You ask too many questions, girl.” _

“What’s happening now? Maker’s breath, another seizure. Alistair, sweetheart, can you even hear me?”

Slipping. He could feel himself slipping and he could not stop it. There was a hot ache in the center of his chest and it spread through his shuddering nerves and he could not stop it.  _ ‘No, please, not like this!’  _ he thought, but could not find his mouth to say words of warning. It was building too quickly. 

Electricity under his skin. He groaned as the sparks burst under his nail beds, under his tongue, in the joints of his toes— magic looking for the past of least resistance— and he could not channel it because he could not control himself 

_ hecouldnotmovehimself _

No. No. No. No.  _ Nononono. _

Magic crackled out, everywhere, lightning loosed not only from his hands, but from his skin, too. And now another scream, but this time it was Elissa screaming. She shook beneath him, absorbing the runoff magic as it burst free.

Wynne swore— a sound he never thought he would hear— and threw up a barrier. Not around herself but around  _ him _ , sliding around him like a second skin, and without another place to go, the magic rebounded on him.

Blessed, merciful unconsciousness.

* * *

 

“Your nerves are damaged,” someone whispered to him. “We’ll keep you comfortable. Do not worry.”

He could not tell the difference between sedation and paralysis. When he was awake he could not bear it. He let himself sleep, and that was better. To be awake and trapped in the stillness was worse than death.

* * *

 

Solona slumped down in the bedside chair, and kicked her feet up onto the bed. Her slippers brushed his knee. He could not keep his eyes open, but he could hear her. One functioning sense at a time. The pain was more manageable with the potions, but it made him dull and small.

“I did it,” she announced, in a voice meant to be triumphant, though it leaned more exhausted. “I really did it. I had to know I could face down a demon after…” She trailed off, and he felt the warm huff of the magic she cast to ward off eavesdroppers.

“Cullen thought it was an unnecessary risk. He acted like an ass. He was so agitated that Ser Perth wouldn’t even let him in the castle. I wish you had been there to talk him down. The Warden wanted to come with me, of course, but the ritual we have can only send a mage.

“Connor’s demon was Desire. The child wanted to save his father, so it makes sense. I’ve always found Desire to be easier to fight than say… Pride. I wonder what that says about me? Probably lots. Oh, don’t judge me, Alistair, you great ninny. Sloth liked you best, and that’s even worse. Death by laziness.” 

There was a smile in her voice. She waited for a moment, almost like she was waiting for him to answer her teasing, but he could not signal to her that he was listening. His body was the cold stone of a tomb, encasing him on all sides.

With hesitation, Solona carried on talking. “She, or  _ it _ , I suppose — Desire sort of looks like a strapping naked fellow, no? Is that just me? — It tried to make a bargain with me. I think most mages are used to the stupid offers.” She adopted a slightly sinister voice, to suggest a demon. “‘Let me in and I’ll free you, I’ll kill the nasty templars, I’ll take you back to your family.’ That never really bothered me like it could the others. I had Uncle Irving, and I saw most of my family twice a year. Really, I could tune that voice out... At least, until it started saying ‘I’ll break these handcuffs for you, I can save Lily’s life, I can save your life _.’ _ ” She swallowed, and her voice dropped down into a whisper. “‘I can save everyone. Let me help you.’”

A long pause. A soft, dry sob. “I had to know I could still face down a demon. I went in, all spit and vinegar, to kill the nasty thing. I’m free now. What more could I desire? But… then it said to me, ‘I can fix him. I can take away the nightmares. I can make him forget. Just leave me the boy, and everything will be better again.’” 

Inhale. Exhale. 

“The terrible thing is, I’m not sure I cared about saving Connor Guerrin. I would have given the boy up in a heartbeat to make Cullen the way he was before Uldred— And I think if the Warden had been there in my place, she would have traded anything just to wake you up, Alistair.” She delicately cleared her throat. “The only thing that held me back was the thought that if I gave in once, and traded a child’s life today, by tomorrow I might find something worth trading myself.”

* * *

A soft voice in his ear— kind, uncertain, with a hint of something else?  _ Fear _ , he did not want to think. “I have to go now, my love. They say you’re getting better. That you opened your eyes yesterday and asked for me. I came, but too late. You were asleep, again. I have a duty. I will be back.”

Water trickled into his mouth. She always remembered that he was thirsty.  _ ‘Lissa,’ _ he thought muzzily, urging his fingers to move so he could reach for her. His index and middle finger flickered at his command, and fell still.

“We have a lead on a Dalish clan in the Brecilian Forest. Or rather, Marla has a lead, and I’m coming along. It’s time sensitive, I’m afraid.” She brushed his forehead with a kiss. “Forgive me for abandoning you, Alistair, for I cannot forgive myself.”

He heard the clunk of her heavy boots on the wood floor, the jingle of chainmail, the thump of her sheathed daggers against her back. The sounds faded, and drew away.

* * *

 

> _ Dearest Leliana, _
> 
> _ I’m writing this crouched before a pew in the Chantry; forgive my handwriting. The darkspawn are coming. I came to find you but you were gone already. Sister Ursula says you went with the Grey Wardens on to Redcliffe some days ago, after the Regent’s men drove them out of Lothering.  _
> 
> _ Could you believe they invited me to come, too? I turned them down. Mother thinks now this was a mistake. I hope you understand that I could not leave her, and she could not leave without my brother and sister. I wish I had known you were going. I wanted to say goodbye. _
> 
> _ Carver and Marian are here now. Just a day before the darkspawn, they say. Carver was wounded in the knee. Not badly. They fought a path home all the way from Ostagar. Marian thinks we should go west, with the refugees, and I am inclined to agree with her.  _ _ That might bring me closer to you. _ _ But Mother wants to go back to her family home. That’s in Kirkwall, did I ever say? So we will go east, and try to catch a ship from Gwaren. _
> 
> _ It is so loud here.  _ _ Marian is laughing at me, wondering to which boy I am so desperately writing. _ _ Everyone is frightened. I will give this letter to Ursula. I do not know when, or if, it will find you. _
> 
> _ Maker keep you safe, _
> 
> _ Bethany _

Leliana sat on the edge of his bed and cried, fat ugly sobs, whispering in Orlesian between each heave of her chest, because Bethany’s letter was weeks old and Lothering was gone and no one knew if she got out alive. Her nose ran. She crumpled the letter in her damp palms, and then hastily smoothed it out in her lap— cheap brown paper smashed against blood-orange silk. The ink smudged and she cried harder, rain opening up into a downpour.

Alistair held her hand and fed her mindless platitudes. It was the answer to the question he never got around to asking — Leliana and Bethany — but he only felt her grief. Grief like a monument, a ruin of stone, tactile and real and broken.

His hands came back first. His legs were slower to recover, and in the first days he fell often. He walked with a limp now, felt clumsy like a tin soldier with stiff legs. Strangely, Cullen was there with him daily, though he could never remember him being there before. Perhaps he was. He could only remember a little of the time he’d spent recovering from the Crow poison, but the only moment that mattered was the moment he’d lost it all.

_ ‘She knows what I am,’ _ he thought. Vile. Disgusting. A mage who could not stop himself.  _ ‘I hurt her.’ _ Hands in the mud, on his knees. His whole body trembled with the effort.

“Get up,” Cullen said, firmly but not unkindly. “Pick up your sword and get up, Alistair.”   
  
“I can’t,” he whispered, and his stomach flipped over. He vomited, coughing, into the mud. His insides felt terribly stretched to thinness, like he could feel the miles between Elissa and himself.

“I know. Get up anyway.”

Alistair wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and looked up. “What do you know?” he asked, finding the words difficult.

Cullen offered him a hand up. “I know what it is to pull yourself back together after being ripped apart. I know what it feels like, better than anyone.” 

Alistair took the hand, lurching to his feet. Every muscle cried in torment. “Thanks.”

“In a way, I envy you.”

“Sorry, I must have misheard you.” He clenched his teeth.

Cullen waved him away dismissively. “Your body is healing. The healer thinks you can even be rid of that limp if you keep at it. But what the mages did to my head, no one can heal.”

“Addy said that?”

“Yes.” He looked down, curled his nostrils in disgust at the sick on the ground, and began to walk away. His sword dangled in his hand, scratching a trailing line in the dirt behind him. “As good as. She said she could help me fall asleep, but she could not fix madness.”

“I don’t think she would say it like that.”

“Why not? That’s what people should say. I’m mad, aren’t I?” Cullen’s left hand began to spasm, like it did when he was upset. “The lyrium helps. But not enough.”

“Take it long enough, and it will help  _ too _ much,” Alistair observed dryly.

Cullen snorted. “True enough.” He glanced over his shoulder, with a faint smile playing about his lips. “Pick up your sword, Alistair.”

“Fine. Because you ask so nicely.” He stuck out his tongue, and forgot to feel bad about himself.

When Cullen wasn’t dragging his sorry ass around in the mud— and so many footsteps, so many people, Redcliffe swollen to bursting with refugees had turned every patch of grass to thick mud— Alistair sat under the tree near Leliana’s camp desk. It hurt even to sit on the ground, because his muscles had turned to pudding during his illness, but Bodahn had supplied an oiled canvas sack stuffed with straw, and fashioned it into a waterproof cushion.

He wrote, with the paper resting on a slate board from the chantry school. His hand pinched up like a crab, not wanting to grasp the quill. His handwriting was shaky, worse than the script of some old man. He’d always prided himself the elegance of his penmanship. But the dexterity had gone from his fingers. His hands were two ham hocks, thick, and stupid, and useless. Doomed to hold nothing smaller than the hilt of a broadsword.

Alistair wrote to Elissa, garbled nonsense, every day, just to practice. It did not seem to be getting easier. After, he would carefully black out the words before he burned the pages, lest some snoopy Orlesian come sniffing around his things. That was the first useful lesson he’d learned from Cailan— keep your private business private.

> _ Lissa, darling Lis, I cannot find the words to say exactly what I’m feeling. I should have told you. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.  _
> 
> _ I’m a mage.  _
> 
> _ I’m not a mage. It was Flemeth’s doing. She did this to me. To us. To you. That wasn’t me, it was Wynne? It was Morrigan, playing a trick. What would you believe? Stupid stupid stupid stupid Alistair.  _
> 
> _ Lis, I’m taking responsibility for electrocuting you. It was my mistake. It won’t happen again. Are you hurt? _
> 
> _ Lis, I started taking lyrium and it made my templar abilities go crazy. _
> 
> _ No, I’m not actually taking lyrium. Don’t make that face. No, not that face either. _
> 
> _ Lis, like Cullen, I think I’ve gone mad. _

Summer gave way to autumn, slowly, reluctantly, like the trees in Redcliffe were waiting with him for the Warden's party to return from the other side of Ferelden. The leaves burst into their jeweled plumage above his head, in shades of gold and sun and fire. Sometimes Bodahn’s boy, Sandal, sat beside him and wrote in his own journal.  _ ENCHANTMENT, ENCHANTMENT, ENCHANTMENT _ he carved in his painstaking way. Alistair liked Sandal. Sure, he was a little slow in the mouth, but something in his blue eyes suggested a wicked cleverness, and he always split his lunch three ways with Barkspawn and Alistair.

He was alone, however, when Leliana returned to her desk. A crow sat on her shoulder, cawing softly into her ear. Her hands were spotted with ink, but he noticed that sometime in the past day she had painted her nails a shade of pink. Not deep fuchsia, like her armor, but pale pink, like the color of Elissa’s mouth.

The thought startled him. Lissa had been gone for six weeks now. She had sent one brief note from the field:  _ Made contact with Dalish. Will be delayed. Too many mages. Should have brought a templar. Werewolves! My old teacher would be giddy. xx E.C. _

“Where do you think she is right now?” Leliana asked him, breaking his train of thought. She settled her burden of parcels on top of the stack of papers.

“Seeing how it is about noon, I’d say... up in a tree, eating a squirrel,” Alistair grinned.

“Be serious.” She laughed anyway. “I am sure it is not squirrel.”

“You’d be surprised about the kinds of things we ate in the Wilds.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Sometimes it was, in fact, squirrel.”

“Oh, but that was a terrible place. With the Blight all around you. The Brecilian Forest is beyond all that.” She tipped her head. “I have gone off course. You distracted me. Hmph. I have a surprise for you.”

“Did it come with the messenger?”

“Oh! Yes it did! How did you know?”

“I just assumed. Those packages are too large for bird delivery.”

“They are.” She pulled the big, square box from the bottom of the stack. “No, don’t get up. I will bring it to you.”

It was a white and blue striped box tied with a thick ribbon, a hallmark of a certain Orlesian dress shop. A little battered from the distance in a saddlebag, but still, it was an unexpected luxury to see such a thing in Ferelden. “Maker’s breath, Leliana, how did you get this past the border?”

“A dwarven smuggler, obviously.” Her laughter pealed like little bells. “How else would I do it? It was not cheap, but I have some money in the bank in Val Royeaux which I cannot use here.”

“Some?”

“It is more than a little,” she admitted, deftly pulling off the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside, with a soft  _ whiff _ of tissue paper, were two pairs of drakeskin boots. Soft, supple, stretched leather, with padded interiors, crafted specifically for tiny feet. The first pair were bleached to a bone-white color, and laced with sapphire blue ribbons, with small heels, which would sit delicately at mid-calf. The second were dyed mahogany brown, with sturdy laces and soles, tall enough to wrap the knee, and capped with diamond-shaped poleyns.

“Leli,” he hissed between his teeth, “how did you afford these?” He ran his finger along them, feeling the muffling enchantment on them in his molars. Quiet boots.

She smirked. “I had a life before the Chantry.”

“Does the bard business pay this well?”

“This is a trifle, Alistair. In Val Royeaux, I had a whole wardrobe of clothes like these. But the shoes! I miss them the most of all. Darling little things, with such clever designs, and they changed with every season. They do not make them like this in Ferelden.”

“Are these are for you?” he asked, feeling slightly disappointed.

“Don’t be silly. They are for the Warden, of course.” She chucked him under the chin. “I know you asked Bodahn to look out for a nice pair for Lissie. Her feet are so small, and they hurt all the time in those stupid men’s boots.”

“Exactly!”

“I want you to give them to her. They were your idea. I just had some thoughts on the design and the measurements. They are called, colloquially, ‘bard’s dancing shoes’. Armored boots which look like finery. Very useful.”

“The white ones seem less useful, what with the heels.” He turned them over in his hand, peering suspiciously at the tread on the black soles.

“Those are not for Warden business, of course. Those are for Oswin.”

Alistair settled the boot carefully back into the crinkly white paper. “Leliana, what exactly is Oswin? I remember… Zevran said the name, and Elissa put down her knife. No one has told me what it means.”

Leliana’s smile shrank. “I assumed she told you. It really should be her, not me, who tells you.”

“Leliana…” he said, with growing warning in his tone. “Tell me what it means. It’s a place, isn’t it? In the Waking Sea?”

“A bannorn.” She sighed. “Specifically, a castle— Caer Oswin. I don’t think I should be telling you this—” Leliana tried to stand up. He grabbed her by the wrist, hard, surprising them both. “Alistair, you’re hurting me,” she complained softly, with round eyes.

“No games.”

A flicker of an angry sneer on her lips, which she smoothed away gracefully. “Certain nobles dislike Teyrn Loghain’s regency. Your Uncle Teagan is one. Bann Loren Eremon of Oswin is another.”   
  
“I know that name.” He let go of her wrist. There was a white mark where his rigid fingers had snagged her, but he had not held on so hard as to leave a bruise. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have,” he muttered.   
  
She ignored the apology. “You should know him. His wife and son were killed with the Cousland family.”   
  
“Oh. I see why he’d be angry.”   
  
“He wants to bring Howe to justice. The regency shields him.” As a dark afterthought, she tacked on, “For now." She rubbed her wrist. "Some would see it as high treason, if they are caught— of course— planning a rebellion against Queen Anora. Redcliffe is easily compromised by spies. It is inevitable, with so many people running from the darkspawn. Berwick, Jowan, even Zevran got in undetected. We have to be most careful.”   
  
He couldn’t help scowling at the mention of the Antivan elf. Why Lissa let him stay on after everything was beyond Alistair’s comprehension.   
  
“Lis is going to this… this meeting?” A tightness in his chest. “Of course she’s going. We’re already traitors to the Crown on paper. What’s a little more high treason between friends?” He caught the nervous pitch in his voice. “I think I can guess why she kept it from me.”   
  
“We all have our secrets, Alistair," Leliana said, with a knowing, sympathetic smile. "But I like to think we are friends, now."   
  
From down the hill, a child cried out: "Sister Leliana! Sister Leliana!" He was one of her runners, a young lad no older than six years old, who was fond of the birds. As he sprinted up the path, he clenched his cap in one fist and a roll of parchment in the other. He waved them wildly. "A message has come from Honnleath, ma'am. Milord says it's ur—" he startled himself, trying to remember the exact wording of the command. "Come!" he decided. "You must come!"


	31. Parents

By the time Leliana read the distressed missive, signed with the name _Matthias_ , Cullen was already saddling a horse. “If you will not come, I will go by myself,” he warned them, grim faced and pale.

“Of course we’re coming with you. There was never any question,” Alistair assured him, limping his way to the hitching post.

The village of Honnleath was eight hours by horse, a full day's travel through treacherous mountain roads. They did it in six. Where Alistair’s recollection of the paths in the Hinterlands began to falter, Cullen’s memory picked up. This was the way back to his home— a place he had not seen in the better part of a decade.

Honnleath was one of those tiny hamlets which were rarely marked down on maps. Far south of Redcliffe, nestled in the shadow of the snowy Frostback Mountains, Honnleath’s denizens were generally subsistence farmers, growing enough food for themselves on the rocky soil. Their primary occupation was livestock— goats and horses— like their barbarian ancestors before them. The animals thrived in the pastures of grass and clover, and Honnleath traded some of the sweetest goat milk in Ferelden to the surface dwarves, who lined their wagons with sawdust and blocks of ice from the mountains’ frozen lakes. Cullen’s parents were two such farmers, and ran their freehold with the help of his three siblings.

The village proper, if it could be called as such, was only a few buildings wrapped around a small but lovingly tended square. The local artisans— blacksmith, weaver, dry goods, washerwoman, seamstress— and a tiny chantry were dotted between the pale aspen trees. Cullen spoke very little during their hard ride, but when pressed revealed that Matthias was the son of the village’s most peculiar resident, the mage Wilhelm.

Leliana perked up at the sound of that name, knowing the story of Wilhelm, and being a minstrel and storyteller, she could hardly resist relaying the tale when the horses stopped to drink. “During the Orlesian occupation, Wilhelm was a senior enchanter of the Kinloch Circle,” she said, “and wore the yellow robes of his rank, just as our Wynne does. Arl Rendorn, the father of our Arl Eamon, hired him from his circle into the service of the Rebel Queen Moira.” Leliana gave Alistair a gentle, suggestive look, but he merely nodded, not wishing to discuss his feelings on his mythic grandmother. “As an extremely talented mage of the destruction school, Wilhelm wielded fireballs like a one-man army. It is said he controlled a powerful golem, one of the dwarven magical constructs, though no one knows where he acquired such a thing.”

Cullen snorted derisively. “I’ve seen it. If it ever was a golem, the magic has gone out of it. It’s just an ugly statue now, in the square. Has been since I can remember.” His lips quirked. Not really a smile, but less of the nervous scowl he’d been sporting. “When we were children, we used to dare each other to touch the thing. My sister Mia was the bravest of us by far, I’m afraid. Does your story say how Wilhelm controlled it?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Curious. The rumor was that the creature killed its master.”

“Did it?”

“I don’t know. He must have died before I was born. The mage and his golem were rather a sort of ghost story with the children, come to think of it. If I did not know of his son, I would not believe that the Chantry could ever let a mage live so far outside the Circle.”

“I could. Wilhelm was a war hero,” said Leliana. “Everyone knows that King Maric was gravely wounded at West Hill, and that Arl Rendorn was slain, but what they may not remember is that it was Wilhelm who rallied the rebel army and preserved it from total annihilation.”

“And people were willing to follow him? A mage?” Perhaps Alistair asked this too eagerly.

Leliana cocked her head toward him. “It was an unusual time. After all, the Orlesian Usurper also employed a mage as _his_ commander.”

“I don’t remember being taught that in templar school. Do you, Cullen?”

“No. It’s common knowledge that the Usurper was insane.” The other man turned up his nose. “Orlesians are strange. No offense, Leliana.”

She rolled her eyes. “None taken. I have always considered myself to be Fereldan.”

“How did the mage end up in Honnleath?”

“After Maric reclaimed his rightful throne, Wilhelm was elevated to the position of court enchanter, and granted a royal boon from his King.”

“I suppose he chose his freedom,” Alistair said thoughtfully. “A chance at a normal life.”

“No mage can really be normal.” Cullen swung his leg up and over his mount. “They stationed three templars in Honnleath just to watch over him and his family.” He gathered the reins into one fist. “I must admit... if it weren’t for this mage, I might have missed my calling to the Order.”

“Imagine that,” Alistair replied sourly. _‘Amell would be better off without you.’_ He thought of his friend, far off with the others, and was glad she was not there to hear Cullen being his usual self. With some difficulty, he mounted his own horse, and led them across the stream.

Deep sunset was upon them before they finally cut their way through the darkspawn-ravaged freeholds in the southern Hinterlands. From the gray stone fortress of Winterwatch Tower southward, darkspawn bands controlled the roads, making the ride much more difficult. From Winterwatch itself, a bevy of archers (who may have been bandits) saluted them from their high perches on the stone walls. Alistair grimaced, hoping that they were not charging refugees too much money for the protection of the walls.

Honnleath bordered the Kocari Wilds, that no-man’s-land of cold mist and strange creatures. Alistair thought of it as the natural end of civilization, until Cullen pointed out that there were villages in isolated pockets within the Wilds themselves— for example, Honnleath traded with neighboring villages like King's Crossing and Fisher’s End, which were situated inside the dank wetlands known as the Fallow Mire. Though he had never been there himself, Cullen believed that the majority of the inhabitants were Fereldan, not Avaar or Chasind.

Alistair wondered why anyone would want to live so far into the mists. Perhaps they were settlements built by escaped apostates, or wanted criminals, and their children? Where would they go, when the Blight came for them? Where, even, could the people of Honnleath go, if they rescued them? He spurred his horse into a gallop, trying to outrace his thoughts.

In the end, there was very little left to rescue.

They saw the fire first. Flames of the burning buildings wreathed the skyline like an orange crown. Bodies hung from ropes at the broken gate, macabre trophies of the conquering darkspawn. Alistair and Leliana were off their mounts in moments, he with his sword and shield, and she with her shortbow. The stiffness in his legs and the soreness of the long ride were all but forgotten as he thumped his helmet over his eyes, reducing the world to the slit in his visor.

Cullen’s eyes were as large as saucers, despite the sting of the thick smoke. “Maker have mercy,” he whispered in a choked voice. “There’s… no one left.”

“Cullen, I am so sorry…” Leliana’s face creased with sadness. Black soot streaked her sweaty face.

The templar did not seem to hear her. He shifted as if he would dismount, then changed his mind, yanking the reins to pivot his horse. The horse reared, frightened by the flames and the smell of death, and he struggled for a moment to regain control. “I have... I have to go.” He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. His mouth warred with itself, twisting, as if at any moment his face would collapse with grief. “My family…” Again he nearly lost hold of himself. “My family farm is three miles from here. If they are still alive, they may be there. I will go.”

“Cullen, you can’t go by yourself!” Leliana cried, looking frantically between the approaching genlocks and back to the templar. “Wait a moment, and we will come with you.”

“Let him go,” Alistair interjected. He batted the first genlock away smoothly, cutting it down with his sword. Just like the training dummy. Thank the Maker he could still do this. He looked back over his shoulder. They locked eyes. Cullen nodded to him once, firmly, and without another word he was gone, into the smoke. The remaining two horses bolted riderless down the path.

“It’s suicide, Alistair! What if he finds more darkspawn all alone?”

“What if _we_ find more darkspawn?” he said between his teeth. “Cullen has to do it.”

“But—”

“They’re probably dead!” he exclaimed, more harshly than he intended. “Don’t you see? If he finds them, he won’t want _us_ there watching him.”

“We’re going after him.” Her accent seemed thicker in the smoke.

“If we have the chance,” he conceded. “But we have a responsibility to the survivors. Cullen knows that.”

Two against… Alistair counted maybe twenty. If they all came in a line like this, they would be fine. As long as Leliana did not run out of arrows, they would be fine. He had seen her use her thick sylvanwood bow to pummel enemies like a staff in the melee, but only in desperate moments. She liked that bow; she claimed it had once belonged to a famous Orlesian outlaw called the Black Fox, though he imagined that was a fabrication.

There were corpses littering the ground, though he was not close enough to determine their age. Honnleath was a walled village. How long had they held when the darkspawn came? If Wilhelm had strengthened them with magic, as was done in Redcliffe, it was a poor showing of Teagan and Leliana’s plan. ‘ _Blights last years,_ ’ he thought, ignoring the ache in his shoulder as his shield absorbed the blow of a crude black mace. _‘What could even remain? The castle might hold long enough for us all to starve.’_ He tried not to flinch instinctively as an arrow came whistling past his ear. She wouldn’t hit him... he hoped.

As of this morning, when the messenger pigeon was sent, Matthias and some others had still been alive. It was their duty to find them. Alistair sent up a silent prayer for the Rutherfords and lost himself in the fray. Absently, he recognized that the blackest smoke came from the remains of the chantry.

In the center of the square, just as Cullen had said, was a stone figure. It had been painted on the chest at some time, though the colors were mostly chipped away, and it sparkled from the shoulders and wrists with blue crystals. Not lyrium, he surmised, for they did not sing, but he could feel some kind of latent cold magic chill his skin if he got too close. Surrounding the statue were trampled delphinium, long-stemmed flowers which he recognized were grown for for ink and dye.

These ones were royal purple. Smashed into the dust.

This reminded him of Wilhelm and Maric, and he could not help but wonder if they had been friends. What had Maric thought of mages? From every story he’d hungrily scavenged of Maric — and he could not call him Father, not even in his own head — Alistair knew that Maric had been tolerant, even sympathetic to the plight of mages politically. But personally? That was rather a mystery. Who alive had really known Maric but Loghain? And Alistair would rather die than ask Loghain anything but — _why?_

Would Maric have accepted him, as a mage? Would he have been disgusted, or repulsed, or ashamed by his younger son? Maric was five years dead. What did it matter? Why did it matter _so much_?

As if Maric Theirin and Elissa Cousland were cut from the same cloth. Rebel King. Rebel Queen. Calenhad’s blood in their veins. (In Alistair’s veins, too.) As if he could know her feelings by scrying in the blood of their ancestor. She knew now, at least, why he could never be king. Whatever her feelings, at least she would understand.

_“We don’t keep our titles in the Circle,” said Solona._

_“No mage can really be normal,” said Cullen._

When the fighting abated, Alistair stooped and collected a stalk of delphinium, remembering the enchanted red rose he had plucked from the blackened rose bush in the chantry garden in Lothering. Leliana had seen it and thought it a sign of the Maker’s will. Alistair had seen it and thought it simply beautiful.

He held the stem between his gauntleted hands. On closer examination, the purple petals were wilting on the edges, turning a sickly brown. Alistair thought of keeping it, maybe shoving it in his boot and taking it with him. But the heat of his body would only kill it faster. By the time he could return to Redcliffe, it would be a shrivelled black corpse of a plant. With a sigh, he crushed the flower in the palm of his hand, and let it drop— mangled and broken— to the ground.

There was only one building still untouched by fire when the bloody battle was finished. Leliana and Alistair stumbled indoors, hoping for a moment away from the acrid smoke, and found it overrun by darkspawn. Naturally. It was a large, luxurious home for such a remote place. Brimming with books, a cursory glance confirmed this to be the arcane collection of a former Circle mage. They fought their way downstairs, down to a magical laboratory. Though Wilhelm must have been dead for twenty years or so, his equipment was dusty but intact, still in its place, as though someone had wished to preserve him.

Alistair had expected to be delighted to find survivors of the slaughter in Honnleath, but instead found himself bone-numb and distant. There were six adults there, shielded by a powerful magic barrier which emanated from a magical artifact. Wynne would have been terribly impressed, he mused idly as Leliana stepped forward to speak with them. She filled Elissa’s usual role fairly well, he had to admit, after all the time the two women had spent together. Perhaps it was time to stop begrudging their close friendship.

“Thank the Maker! We’re saved!” shouted a woman in relief, falling to her knees.

“Which of you is Matthias?” she asked cautiously.

“You got my message? Is it safe to come out?” questioned a tall man who sported a thin beard and a braid. With a single gesture, the barrier faded in color, becoming permeable. He was dressed like all the others, so it was not immediately obvious if he was an apostate, or merely well tutored by his mage father, like Adelaide. “I wasn’t sure my pigeons would find anyone. I sent all of them out this morning. Are you from the bann?” The five others passed through the barrier and ran up the stairs.

“No. We are— in our way— from the Arl of Redcliffe. I am Sister Leliana, and this is Warden Alistair.”

“Grey Wardens, here? Thank the Maker for our luck. I thought you might be…” he trailed off, and indicated that they should come to his side of the divide. Alistair heard sudden chatter upstairs, but thought little of it. He followed Leliana through the barrier, feeling it wobble and ripple across his skin in an unpleasant way.

 _Magic,’_ he thought with annoyance. _‘At least this time it saved someone.’_

“I thought you might be more treasure hunters, looking for Shale.”

“Shale?”

“The golem,” said Matthias with poorly disguised hatred, “out on the green. You must have seen it.”

“We did. It belonged famously to your father Wilhelm, yes?”

“So you do know it.” He sighed. “That damnable golem has brought us nothing but trouble. After my father died, my mother sold the control rod, and good riddance. She despised the creature, but father would not part with it. Shale was a trophy of all his greatest achievements, and a magical marvel, all in one package. It eventually murdered him. Unfortunately, without the control rod, the mages who came from the Circle could not remove Shale from the square. About six months ago, some rough-looking men showed up in the village. Bandits, or such. They had bought the rod from a merchant, and wanted the passphrase to control it. I refused, and they decided they would try and torture it out of me.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Since you’re still here, might I assume the operative word is _tried_?”

“Yes,” Matthias said curtly.

“Are you a mage?” he found himself asking.

“Does it matter? What are you, a templar?”

Alistair shrugged. “Nope.” It felt pretty good to say it.

Leliana gave him a sidelong glance. “We must be going now, Matthias. There is someone else who needs us.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t let you.”

A shiver shot up Alistair’s spine as he felt the barrier solidify again. He did not need to turn around to know they were trapped with the stranger. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Alistair’s voice went low, and he felt himself reaching back for his sword.

“I know you already saved my life, and I’m grateful, but I need your help.” His voice shook as he held up his hands. “My daughter is inside the laboratory. She was afraid, and ran too far in before I could stop her. I don’t know how she made it past my father’s defenses. One of the men tried to go after her. He was killed.”

“You want people to throw at the magical defenses,” Alistair accused. “You want to test them.”

“No! I thought… You see, there is an ash wraith down there,” Matthias said bluntly. “I am not strong enough to kill it. Amalia tripped the defenses in the lowest levels.”

“Your father was dabbling in demons?”

“Only as a means to cure possession. My father was a good mage, ser, but a prideful man. An adventurer in the Deep Roads, a commander in the rebellion, and a hero to Ferelden. He thought he wanted to retire to a quiet life, but when he discovered you people had cut him out of the story of the rebel army—” and here Matthias cast an accusing glare at them both “—he decided he would make himself famous by finding a cure. No more Circles, no more Rite of Tranquility.”

 _‘Yes,’_ Alistair thought, _‘Matthias is definitely a mage.’_

A creak of metal drew their attention. “I’ve heard just about enough of this.” Cullen stepped from out of the shadows of the platform above them. His templar armor was coated in black ichor, and his face and hair were slick with sweat. “Arrogant mage! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t dispel that barrier and strike you down for holding them against their will!” His eyes were red and blotchy, and his hands twitched violently as they clung to the hilt of the sword on his hip. Tears fell in a stream down his cheeks.

“Maker’s breath, a templar!” Matthias hiccupped, retreating against the far wall. “Where did he come from?”

“Cullen! We’re fine!” Alistair tried to smile in a reassuring way. It came off as more of a grimace. “Everything is fine here.”

“You are in danger! That mage will take you to Uldred! He will sacrifice the sister for their blood magic ritual!”

“I don’t know any Uldred!” Matthias gasped, throwing his hands over his head with a wail. Cullen lashed at the barrier with his templar abilities. There was a crackle of white and blue energy; the barrier weakened, but did not fall.

“Shut up, Matthias,” Alistair suggested quietly. “He’s back at Calenhad again.” Leliana sucked in breath and nodded.

Another crackle and flash! And still, Wilhelm’s magic held. Cullen reached for his belt with a cry of frustration and pulled out another tiny vial of lyrium. He bared his teeth as he uncorked it— they were already stained with dark blue.

 _'Maker’s breath,’_ he thought. He remembered the trembling templar in Kinloch, muttering the Chant, his mind numbed by too much lyrium. “Ser Cullen!” he called out, in the most crisp and authoritative voice he could muster. “Where are you right now?”

“In the Tower,” Cullen answered brusquely. “The mages have been holding us for days, but don’t worry... I’ve found some lyrium. I’ll get us out.” With a wince, he knocked back the potion vial. Some, Cullen apparently included, could not tolerate the taste. They were the sort who usually fell into injecting the stuff. His pupils dilated; the black flooded his honey colored eyes. A choking sigh escaped his stained lips, as the singing magic restored his artificial mana reserves.

“Matthias, lower the barrier.”

“But he’ll smite me,” Matthias whimpered. He had a point.

Alistair clenched his fists. “He very well may, if you don’t do exactly what I say. Lower the fucking barrier, all the way down, until we can’t see it. If you do, I promise we’ll go after your daughter.”

“Blessed Andraste,” the man breathed, and reluctantly complied with a shake of his hand. He sank to the floor, shielding his head with his arms and making himself as small a target as possible.

“Ser Cullen,” Alistair tried again, forcing himself to speak calmly, even if his leg bounced with nervous energy. “We’re not in the Tower. That’s over now. Where are we?”

Cullen blinked, slowly. The pale violet shield of magic dissipated into nothingness. He shuddered, and his pupils began to retract. “Uldred. He has the First Enchanter upstairs in the Harrowing Chamber.”

“That’s happened. It did happen, but it’s over now.”

The shivering templar rocked back on his heels. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.” he muttered, shaking his head.

Alistair answered, “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. They taught us the chant to resist possession. You held, Cullen.”

“Alistair? Can’t you hear her? The demon!” Cullen breathed noisily, cocking his head to listen for something only he seemed to hear. “She says... I… No, that’s not right. We’re in H-Honnleath.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Alistair strode across the room, catching Cullen as he crumpled to the floor. The templar’s teeth clacked together, as if he was freezing cold.

“Alistair. M-my… p-p-p-parents…” he stuttered out; blue-tinged spittle erupted from his quivering lips. Cullen pressed his face against Alistair’s filthy chestpiece. A keening wail escaped him— loud, honest, horrible.

In that moment, Alistair loathed himself. _Why_ had he thought it a good idea to let Cullen go alone? Because he was angry with him? Had he wanted to punish him? He could not remember.

Leliana shook her head, and descended into the laboratory alone.

“Oh, Maker’s breath,” Matthias groaned with increasing realization. “I know you. You’re young Cullen! Cullen Rutherford! The kid who went off to be a templar. Your parents— Oh, Maker, your _parents_. Mia and Rosalie got here yesterday, racing the darkspawn. They tried to warn us— fat lot of good it did— but they tried. Your brother Bran took an arrow in the lung, the poor bastard, but I patched him up. I’m a healer, you see. Never lit so much as a candle flame with magic, but I can mend a wound. Mage-born, you know.” He winced. “The templars knew I was harmless.” Matthias slowly rose to his feet, as if still waiting for the weeping templar to smite him.

The southern freeholders, he explained, had been the first attacked. Matthias repeated the events as told to him by Cullen’s older sister, Mia. Ciar Rutherford, a veteran of King Maric’s army—like almost every other man of his generation in the arling— had retrieved his old sword from the farmhouse and raised it against the darkspawn, trying to give his wife and children a chance at escape. In the time it took to ready a horse, the darkspawn swarmed, striking down Gwena and gravely wounding her son. The girls dragged their brother away, barely conscious and bleeding into his chest, and left their parents behind, knowing that if they stayed they would only share their fate.

“Did they survive?” Cullen asked him gravely. He looked up at Alistair and his expression was odd, difficult to read, like a series of broken components which did not quite know how to be a face. “Mia, and Rosalie, and Bran?”

“They were still alive when they left Honnleath. Your sister Mia has grown into a capable woman, and the kids listen to her. I think they were going to try for South Reach. We heard of a sickness up north in Redcliffe.” He looked to Alistair for confirmation.

“Redcliffe’s fine. There was a plague of a… magical nature,” Alistair said significantly, “but it’s safe there now. Probably safer than South Reach. Lothering was sacked.”

Matthias paled. “Where are we to go? It’s only my Amalia and me. Orzammar? King Endrin was friendly with my father.”

“That won’t work. King Endrin is dead and Orzammar is closed to humans. You can come with us to Redcliffe. There’s an organized camp for refugees, run by Bann Teagan.”

“And probably swarming with templars.”

“Let me guess— your daughter is also a mage? No, don’t answer that in front of Cullen,” Alistair quickly added. “You can’t go to Lake Calenhad. The Circle Tower has been sacked, too.”

“Maker’s breath! Darkspawn that far north?”

Cullen repeated, in a voice so serious it was nearly comical, “There was a plague of a magical nature.”

“Well, we can’t go to Orlais.”

“Obviously.”

“Then, we’ll have to get to Denerim. I think my father might have owned some property there, if I can dig up the deed in his papers. Surely, Loghain will be kind to us.”

Alistair bit down on his tongue. He hoped he had the good sense to not dash this frantic man’s one last hope. Shortly after, Leliana returned up the stairs, stone-faced, with a little girl in twin braids.

“Everything is better now,” she said, in a voice that was not wholly reassuring.

“She killed Kitty,” Amalia announced to her father, diving into his embrace. “It was so scary! Why did my kitty want to hurt me?”

“It was not really a cat. Wilhelm kept a desire demon down there,” Leliana explained. “I handled it.”

“By yourself?” Alistair said incredulously.

“The ash wraith was worse.” As simply as she said this, there was an unmistakable trace of satisfaction on her mouth. “I think it had been trapped down there for a very long time.”

“I told you!” Wetness lingered on Cullen’s face with a slick sheen, but he made no move to wipe it away. “I told you I heard her.” He repeated it softer, as if to reassure himself. “I told you.”

* * *

The Rutherford home was just another smoldering cottage, insignificant on a landscape of black smoke. Alistair dug through the blackened rooms, looking for an intact piece of cloth with which to shroud the bodies. The table had once been set for breakfast, but the pewter dishes had melted in the heat of the fire. He recovered a bone hairbrush, with blonde hair still trapped between the bristles, and a handful of tiny carved figurines, which he determined were chess pieces.

One pyre was hastily constructed for Ciar and Gwena, with the assistance of the golem Shale. “I knew them,” it grumbled in its sonorous voice, lifting felled trees like they were matches. “I suppose it wants me to say they were less terrible than the others.”

Cullen followed the golem at a respectful distance, only listening. His arms were folded protectively across his chest; his fists clutched his elbows. It was not much of a funeral, but somehow it was a small, strange comfort to have someone else— something else— who remembered.


	32. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is nsfw

It was an unseasonably hot afternoon when Barkspawn jerked up from his position at Alistair’s feet and began— true to his name— barking excitedly. Alistair looked up, following the mabari’s line-of-snout and catching sight of a dusty cloud kicked up on the east road. In his memories he would later substitute himself into a different task— chopping wood, perhaps, or oiling his sword. In actuality, he was attempting to darn his socks, and making a right hash of it. At least he could be comforted with the knowledge that the fault did not lay with his recuperating hands. He’d always been terrible at needlework.

Alistair stuck his tongue back inside his mouth and flung the gray wool sock aside. The white bone needle spun madly on its thread as it fell, before coming free and swan-diving into the tall weeds. _‘Shit,’_ he thought, distractedly rising from his seat on a stump, _‘I’m going to have to pay Bodahn back for that.’_

He could think of only one reason why the man on the watchtower would not sound the alarm— the feet on the road must be friendly. A grin split across his face and his pulse picked up. He looked down, taking stock of his appearance. Bare feet, rolled up trousers, faded red shirt… The shirt was only a few days used, but damp with fresh perspiration. He looked back to the village, briefly considering running home to change into his other good shirt, before remembering that it was lying under the bed in worse condition. _‘Double shit.’_

Cursing himself for his failure to do laundry— _‘You don’t even have to wash it yourself. All you have to do is hand it to the washerwoman when she comes ‘round!’_ — he jogged up the hill after the dog. In his throat, there was a lump he could not seem to swallow away.

Elissa was the first through the gate, all lines and angles in her blue armor. Only the curve of the tassets on her hips suggested anything of the body underneath. She walked sharply, head down, watching her feet strike the red clay with every step. In fact, she was so focused on putting one foot in front of the other that she nearly ran him down.

“Hi!” he gasped, catching her about the shoulders with both hands.

Lissa’s whole body jumped in surprise at the contact. Her head snapped up, and her startled expression transformed into confusion. “Hello,” she answered him, fixing him with a wary stare. Two high spots of color bloomed on her cheekbones.

Alistair very much wanted to kiss her. Somehow he sputtered out, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I thought you were—”

“I didn’t know you were—” They blurted at the same time. He laughed nervously. “We weren’t expecting you today,” he explained, after taking a breath.

“I know. It was meant to be a surprise.”

“Well then, color me surprised?” he tried.

She winced. “I’m sorry. It was…” she rubbed the side of her nose, swiping a clean mark in the brick colored dust which coated her skin and clothes. “You must think me unforgivably flighty.”

“No!” Too loud. “No, I mean, it’s great. I love surprises. I love that you’re here,” he said earnestly, but it came out weird, even to his ears. “W-what were you going to say before?”

“Oh. I thought you were— well it doesn’t matter now. Leliana let me believe you were still at death’s door.” The emotions came faster than Alistair could track them— aggravation painted over by naked relief. Her eyes turned soft, caressing his face as they roved over his features. “Are you well?” she asked. No accusations, no recriminations, just the uncertainty of two months apart from each other.

The lump in his throat turned hot, like tears pin-pricking the corners of his eyes, and with some difficulty he swallowed around it. “I am now,” he admitted breathlessly. Belatedly, he realized his hands were still holding her shoulders, keeping her quite literally at arm's length. “Can I kiss you?”

“You’d better.” Lissa lit up with a crooked smile, turning the corners of her mouth unevenly. He was fiercely pleased with it, recalling how many times he’d caught her preening in her reflection, practicing expressions which were equal parts precise and false. Her real smiles were for him. Alistair stepped forward and closed the small space between them, feeling first the warmth radiating from her flushed skin, and then the softness of her mouth. Her lips were dusty and tasted of the miles she had walked. It was a relatively chaste kiss, as he was all too conscious of the prying eyes of Sten and Morrigan, who breezed through the gate now— close but not touching.

“This again?” Morrigan complained without any real bite. “T’was bad enough that every second sentence from your mouth bemoaned the fool’s absence. Now you make me live it.”

“Is that true?” Alistair teased, sweeping Elissa into an exaggerated embrace. For a brief moment, her toes were pulled up into the air. “Did you miss me?” he asked, setting her down.

Lissa blushed prettily and buried her face in his shoulder. “Yes.” In her muffled tone he read embarrassment. Her jaw clenched, and her fist tugged at the fabric of his shirt. “It was… difficult to leave you behind.” She murmured this softly into his ear. A frisson of shivers curled lazily down his neck, tracing a path down his spine and dispersing into his ribs. His skin puckered up bumps of gooseflesh. “I must beg your forgiveness later.”

“Not now?”

“No, I’m afraid we’re to be interrupted.” With a sigh of regret she pecked his cheek, and unslung her arms from around his neck. The damp spot stung in the breeze, like she had branded him with her mouth. Alistair imagined that her touch left indelible marks on his skin. Tattooed in liquid gold— a kiss on his cheek, a kiss on his lips, the press of her breasts against his chest, the lines of her fingers doodled across the back of his neck. Some places would burn too brightly— the shaft of his cock, the palms of his hands, a curve across his thighs and hips where she wrapped herself around him—

His face was still frozen in a stupid grin when a black horse nosed its way through the gate.

The rider was a stout man, dressed in simple but expensive plate armor. He had long hair which rolled down his shoulders, auburn in color and laced with silver. Despite his size, he dismounted elegantly from his horse, and to Alistair’s surprise, came barreling down the path right towards him. “This is the boy?” he indicated brusquely, jabbing a thumb in Alistair’s direction. “Speak up, lad,” he ordered, before Alistair could even open his mouth.

Ah, a noble. Alistair glanced to Elissa beside him, doing his best not to gawp like a fish out of water. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Her lips were pursed in a neutral expression, but he felt her nerves trickle through the soulbond. The man was either terribly impatient, or he was trying to rattle him. This close he loomed in Alistair’s vision, a bear of a man. He had very dark eyes, almost completely black in the iris, and stank of horses.

“My name is...” For a brief moment, he hesitated.

Two paths stretched before him—

On one path, he lived as a Grey Warden.

_“They won’t stop coming.” Lissa clutched haphazardly at the wound on her thigh, but her strength was failing. Alistair crouched before her, ripping pieces of his undershirt into bandages with her knife. The blood flowed freely in hot spurts when she tried to sit upright. Bright and slick._

_“I know,” he answered softly. His fingers were numb, shaking with panic. It took all his concentration to wrap the jagged hole in her flesh. Black ooze burned her skin, a stench which made his eyes water. They were Wardens— the ritual had bought them time. One by one, their friends had fallen to the taint._

_The spawn were coming slower now, but they had a minute at most before the next wave of genlocks would drag their knuckles across the rocky field. Elissa collapsed for the last time in some nameless place. Her hands went slack. “Teagan’s reinforcements are late.”_

_“I know.”_

_“You should run.” She stopped shaking from the pain._

_“I will.” They both knew he wouldn’t. Her death was not loud. Just one breath in… and then… nothing. Alistair blinked burning eyes, unable to muster tears. Like the Legion of the Dead, they had said their goodbyes long ago. He stood, red on his fingers, and reached for his sword. Ferelden was a Blightland. Wheat rotted in the fields. Corpses laid unburied. What were two more?_

On the other path, he let Elissa Cousland use his name to bid for the throne. Perhaps the outcome would be the same. But it might buy them a little more time.

His mouth formed the loathsome words. They tasted like ash on his tongue, yet somehow he even drew up on that clear voice which sounded very little like himself. “I am Alistair Theirin, son of Maric the Savior. But I suspect you already know that.”

The bear-man’s black eyes narrowed, studying him with intense scrutiny. Alistair resisted the urge to take a step backward. There he was, barefoot and in a dirty peasant’s shirt, standing in the road to Redcliffe, proclaiming himself to a strange noble with a man-sized greatsword. Maker’s breath. Alistair hoped that if someone recounted this moment, they would at least give him the dignity of boots.

He was teetering on the verge of hysterical laughter when a very unexpected thing happened. Without preamble, the stranger collapsed to one knee and bowed his head. There was a metallic clatter as his poleyn struck the ground, and the dust kicked up around them. “Your Highness,” he rumbled. It was more of an announcement than a greeting.

Elissa exhaled with a long, thin hiss, releasing the breath she had been holding. She grabbed the back of Alistair’s elbow before he could recoil. “May I present Leonas, the arl of South Reach?” she said firmly.

Alistair felt very hot behind his eyeballs. His vision swam against a curtain of white; the ocean roared in his ears. “Oh! I thought you were dead,” he found himself saying. Elissa’s hand braced him upright, an anchor in the churning waters.

Leonas laughed. “Maker’s balls, Cousland, if he’s not Maric’s son, he does a damn fine impersonation!” A bead of sweat broke out on the arl’s brow as he laboriously found his feet. “Cousland pulled me out of the shit— begging your pardon— with her elves. My men and myself have been encamped in the Southron Hills since the retreat from Ostagar. It’s been a damned mess. The King’s army— your brother’s army, may he rest in the Maker’s bosom— is the only thing standing between the Blight and the capital. And we were doing a piss-poor job of it, too, until the elves arrived.”

“Keeper Lanaya and her clan will help in the hills. At a distance, I must add. Some of the other clans may come to shore the line. The Forest itself may be our biggest ally.” She coughed. “Metaphorically, I mean.”

By her evasiveness Alistair knew there was much more she was unwilling to say. “You were successful?” he asked, keeping his voice mild.

“It was… not what I expected. Bryland’s men aren’t keen on being outnumbered by the Dalish, but they’ll just have to make do.”

Alistair frowned. “Outnumbered by one clan? Then Cailan’s army was shattered utterly.”

“It was a close thing,” Elissa explained. She bent down and drew rectangles in the dust to illustrate her points. Cailan’s army had been populated from volunteers across Ferelden. By necessity, the bulk came from South Reach and West Hills, as they were the arlings closest to the surge. Bryce Cousland supplied his own army, the largest in the kingdom, out of allegiance to the throne. Gwaren, likewise, followed her teryn. The king’s personal army was not much more than his honor guard in the capital, but the arling of Denerim had supplemented his ranks. “South Reach, Highever, and West Hills stood behind Cailan. Gwaren behind Loghain. Denerim split between the two armies. Amaranthine was…” here she gritted her teeth, “...otherwise occupied. Redcliffe and the Bannorn sat in reserve, ready to muster if the Archdemon showed.”

“When Loghain took his side and fucking marched home, the center of the main line rolled.” Leonas kicked at the drawing, splashing dirt over Lissa’s neat lines. “Nasty business. Cailan and his Wardens were wiped away in the first tide.” He scuffed his heel to mark approximate x’s north of the original lines. “We regrouped twice before men started cutting and running. Cannot say I blame them. I haven’t seen casualties like that since White River. The mages shielded our retreat. A few companies stuck around for loyalty, or a lack of a place to go, but most of ‘em tried to go home. Took a month to sort out the wounded, and by then, we were cut off. The damn forest to the north, the wilds to the south, and the darkspawn in the west like a river flooding its banks.”

“What happened to Fergus Cousland?” Alistair asked. Ostagar— the scream of metal on metal, the howl of the darkspawn— rang in his ears.

“Fergus is presumed dead. He and his scouts went missing long before the main engagement.” Lissa’s voice was just a little too brittle.

“The Maker has a sense of irony,” said Leonas. “While rumors circulated about my death, _I_ was under the assumption that Elissa and Lachlan had perished with their father by Rendon’s hand. Begging your pardon again, your Highness, but my brother-in-law is a fucking snake. Came back wrong in the head after the war; too much of his father in him, maybe. Bryce never wanted to see it. I should have tried harder, after Eliane cut me out.” His voice lost its boisterous edge.

“Then you’re coming to Oswin?” Alistair asked, with all the confidence and grace of a man bluffing his way through. He felt— rather than saw— Elissa startle.

“I once followed Bryce Cousland to death and back. If Bryce’s daughter vouches for you, Alistair Theirin, I will name you as my prince.” He gave them a grimacing smile. “But it was never me you had to worry about convincing.”

* * *

Alistair hauled buckets of water for the bath. There was something to be said of the monotony of such a physical task. The motion in his muscles drowned out the noise in his head. He only had to turn, turn, turn... As he cranked the handle on the windlass, the pulley squealed. He paused, peering down into the murky darkness. The well was forty feet deep. So why did it feel like the water was rising over his head?

With a bucket in each hand, he walked back to the house, taking care not to spill too much. His trousers were already soaked from the knee down. Why did Redcliffe have so many stairs? He nudged the back door open with his shoulder, stepping into the kitchen, where a steaming copper tub sat upon the hearth. Lissa sat in a chair, watching him with bemusement as he dumped his cargo into the hot water.

She was stripped down to her undershirt and smalls. “You know, a mage could have done this for us in minutes.”

“Maybe I wanted to do it.” He dipped in his fingers, checking that the temperature was no longer scalding. “It’s better the old fashioned way.”

“No, it’s not! You hate fetching water,” Lis answered pointedly, jerking her shirt over her head. Anyone else and the motion would have been awkward, but she somehow made it graceful.

“When did I ever say that?”

“Loudly. Repeatedly.”

“Maybe I just like doing something for you.”

Her back was lined with bruises, in various stages of healing, an unsightly blend of purple and green. Alistair inspected her with his eyes, searching for new scars, and was satisfied when he found none he did not already know by heart. The scarring on the back of her left arm was worst, a memento from Redcliffe Castle, but there was also a waterfall of pale lines on her forearm, where blows had slid down the edge of her off-handed dagger.

“Did you miss me?” she asked, not really expecting an answer. Her expression was not unlike the cat in the cream, studying him over the tip of her nose.

He loomed close to her to cup her cheek. “You’re getting freckles.” He punctuated this with a flick of his thumb.

She wrinkled her nose; creases cracked in the dust on her skin. “Must be all the sunbathing.” Lissa ducked around him, grinning, and vaulted into the tub with a SPLASH. The kitchen fire hissed as the spray peppered the flames.

“Hey! Watch it! I worked hard for that water.”

“See? Complaining!” She stuck her wet feet over the side of the tub, letting herself sink in deep enough to submerge her collarbones. The white cambric breastband she wore turned translucent in the water, revealing the hills of her pebbled nipples. “Coming in, then?” she offered.

Alistair shook his head. “It’s too small for the both of us.”

Lissa took a deep breath and ducked her head under the water. The curls of her hair turned straight and limp as they saturated. When they first met, her hair had only been as long as her chin. Now it touched her shoulders easily. It coiled out, dark, like the feathery edges of spindleweed under the surface of the lake. He watched, fascinated, as she stayed under one minute, two minutes, until her lungs were bursting for air. She shot up with a _whoosh_ , sucking air, and dragging wet hair from her face. It plastered around her ears.

He grabbed the block of soap from the old table, and sank down onto his haunches beside her. The floor was fashioned out of red clay tiles; unforgivingly hard under his knees, but they did hold the warmth of the fire. The bathing basin glowed a dull orange in the light. It was deep, but short, like a flower pot, dented and nicked by use, but recently burnished to gleaming by a servant’s hand. The soap was folded inside a bit of brown paper. He unwrapped it and gave it a sniff. “Clove… and fennel?” he guessed, as his eyes began to sting from the spicy, sweet scent.

“As long as it’s not rosewater, I don’t care.”

“You’re going to stink like an apothecary's cupboard.” Still, he dipped the square under the water, feeling it turn slick between his fingers. Lissa watched him, face curiously blank, as he reached for her and skated the soap along her chest, at the line where skin and fabric met. A fog of soap drifted to the surface of the water, tinting the pool with scum.

“Will that bother you?”

“No,” he whispered, unexpectedly hoarse. He ran his hand lower, cupping her breast. The soap slipped between his fingers, falling away into the cavity between her legs. She smothered a snort of laughter and closed her eyes.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Yes, shame on me for trying to be romantic,” he deadpanned, giving her breast a little squeeze. She squeaked, caught off guard, and color flooded her face. “Oh, you liked that, did you?” His thumb traced a circle around her dusky rose areola, barely brushing the nipple.

“Y-yes.”

Alistair braced his right hand against the curled edge of the tub and leaned forward to steal a kiss. Lissa hummed against his mouth, holding on to the edge with both hands so that the weight of him did not push her under the water. Her tongue flicked lightly at the edge of his lips before she tilted her head back and mumbled, “Aren’t you going to get the soap?”

It was as clear an invitation as he was ever going to get. He rolled her breast beneath his fingers and released it, sliding his hand firmly against her belly, and then the hollow of her hip. His sleeve was soaked to the armpit in hot water. Water wicked across the fabric. It chilled in the air, but he paid this little attention. His fingers plunged into the space between her legs, fumbling against her smalls as he pretended to search for the illusive bar of soap. She gasped, in spite of her aloof nature, and lifted both hands to wind them in his hair. She kissed him harder, open mouthed, and he followed her blindly, rising up on his knees so that his erection ground against the metal of the tub and the front of his shirt soaked in the water.

“I’m all wet,” Alistair protested, breaking the kiss with a rueful shake of his head.

“So am I.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” He could not stop the embarrassed smile from splitting his face. “I…”

“Help me?” she suggested. Her green eyes smoldered behind heavy lids.

He made a noise of agreement. As he rose to his feet, mindful of the wet tiles, she stood up in the copper basin. The scraps of wet fabric Lissa still wore did nothing to protect her modesty. His eye roved from the heave of her bosom to the valley between her thighs. Red curls peeked from the edges of her sopping smallclothes. She shivered delicately at the change in temperature and wrapped her arms around his neck, letting him lift her into the air.

His hands only gave a slight twinge under the strain. Elissa was a light creature, even soaking wet. The front of his trousers dampened as she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he let her hear his moan. He counted each step up to the upper floor, forcing his breath steady even as her pelvis rocked against him. She giggled softly as she felt his arousal press against her core.

“Don’t be a tease, Lissie.”

“Oh, but it’s fun! You should try it.”

He laid her down on his rumpled bed. With some difficulty, she wriggled out of her smalls, then helped him pull off his shirt. Alistair pulled back, considering, and then deliberately pushed her down into the soft bed. “I don’t want to rush this,” he whispered, kissing a feathery line down her hip. Her muscle twitched, ticklish under his attention.

“It’s been two months. I’m surprised you can wait.” But she sighed and carded her fingers through his hair, guiding him to her center.

“All the more reason then.” He tentatively pressed his mouth against her sex. He’d only done this once before, but he found it pleasant enough to wring the soft sounds from her throat. She had a clean, pleasant taste, and smelled particularly of spiced soap. He found that did not bother him in the slightest. His spare hand fumbled with the laces on his breaches, looking to give his aching cock a clumsy stroke as he worshiped at her altar, drawn away into the world of sweet, mindless lovemaking.

He felt her come. In the flood of wetness on his tongue, in the trembling of her thighs and the quaking of her center. He surged upward, kissing her tenderly until her breathing steadied. Her face had turned pink from the exertion, and rivulets of perspiration ran from the creases beneath her breasts. “Okay?” he asked, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

“Don’t you stop now,” she commanded, a mite breathlessly. Her hand snaked between her legs and her breathing came in soft huffs again. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

Alistair let Lissa guide him inside her and set her pace. She never once left him to feel like a novice in the bedroom. Rather, in these dizzying moments, when her liquid gold burnished his flesh, he felt like a king.

 

* * *

Alistair laid his head upon her chest, listening to the pounding of her heart. Lissa petted him, playing with his hair, as she was wont to do. His hair was getting a little long for his liking, actually, but finding a barber was not a simple task these days. He heard her breath hitch, as she prepared to speak, and the nerves nearly got the better of her. “Now is the moment in which I beg your forgiveness,” she said at last.

Alistair rolled away from her so he could see her face. “I wondered when this would come.”

“I needed a reason to entice Arl Bryland away from the army camp. So I gave him the one thing that the Fereldan nobles want most— a son of Maric.”

“You couldn’t have known how I would react.”

“No, I couldn’t have. I considered that I might... lose you,” she admitted. Pain flickered across her features. “I never… but I did it anyway.”

“Do the others know?”

“Others?”

“The ones who have been summoned to Caer Oswin.”

Lissa looked momentarily cross. “How much did Leli tell you?”

“If it was meant to be a secret from me, you’ve done a poor job.” His fingers numbered the ridges of her ribs.

“No," she sighed, “I have not told them anything. That does not mean they do not know. Every one of them will have spies. They would not be much use to me if they were not competent.”

“Is that what Zevran is to you? Competent?”

Elissa pushed herself into a sitting position, dislodging him, and dragging a blanket up to cover her bare body. “Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap. “He saved your life.”

“ _He poisoned me_!” Alistair shuffled backwards on the bed.

“And then, he gave you the antidote.”

“He poisoned me!”

“I know!” she snapped. For a moment, she looked like she would be angry, but one look into his eyes and she shrank into herself. Her knees came up, and she pressed her hands against her face. “I was there, for all of it. I held you while you screamed. For two days, while you hallucinated, I stayed right here, beside this bed.”

“Hallucinated?”

She nodded once. “Until Adelaide found something to calm you.”

“But I remember…” Just what did he remember? “Didn’t I hurt you?”

Elissa gave an agonized laugh. “Oh, my love, if you had struck me, I would have been grateful! There was a moment when… when you stopped breathing, I very nearly stormed outside and killed Zevran myself.” She drew the blanket around her shoulders. “I bargained with the Maker… I told myself if you survived, I would do whatever I had to do. Even if that meant you might hate me.”

Alistair bowed his head. “I think I understand what you mean.” Two paths. “How many secrets are you keeping from me, Elissa?”

“None.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I never lied to you!”

“No, you just hold things back when it’s convenient to you.”

“Damn you!” she growled. “Fine! I thought it would be best to tell you about Caer Oswin… gently.”

“You wanted time to change my mind?”

“I thought I would have plenty of time. But then you were injured and I— why are we even fighting about this?”

“Force of habit?” he suggested. This drew a slight smile from her, though her brow was creased. “We’re on the same side now.”

“What made you change your mind?”

Alistair shrugged, carelessly, tugging the worn gray blanket down her shoulders so he could admire the splash of freckles blooming on her skin. “A pretty girl made a compelling argument?”

“That could be trouble, _my prince_.” That damned inflection again. His softening cock gave an unhelpful twinge of interest; Lissa seemed to enjoy watching him shudder.

“Correction,” he said, with his mouth on her neck. “ _My_ pretty girl.”


	33. Seeking

Alistair walked back to the village from Fort Connor in the blackest hours of the night. His boots felt like lead. These days, only Grey Wardens and dwarven merchants were foolhardy enough to travel alone. In the Hinterlands of late, the risk lay equally with bandits as it did with darkspawn. As the darkspawn horde curled eastward toward Gwaren, those with the sharpest knives prowled in its wake, picking off their fellows. For now, they were motivated by greed. Of course, the most opportunistic among them had seized on the chance the Blight afforded. Some fashioned themselves into mercenary bodyguards for the farmers who were still tied to their isolated holds. And there was nary a crumbling Avaar ruin with four standing walls which lacked a bandit camp.

But soon, Alistair knew, it would be hunger which twisted desperate men to cruelty. A year without a grain harvest, and Ferelden would starve.

A thousand new worries pressed upon his brow— the lines of a would-be crown. In shouldering the title of prince, however fictitious, he felt the weight of the hungry children more keenly than he had imagined possible. Already, Redcliffe rationed its bread and mash, and the fisherfolk worked in shifts through the night to keep up with the demand. Soldiers needed meat to fight and march; mothers needed extra rations to nurse their babes; children needed greens to stave off bleeding gums. Most of the duty rosters positioned the knights as guards for the fieldhands. People picked the harvest anxiously in the fields, watching over their scythes for danger.

The Grey Warden sense was in high demand. They needed Alistair to hunt out places where the darkspawn had burrowed through to the surface. Bodahn had a map to the entrances to Valammar Thaig, but it seemed to be out of date, which was typical for dwarven records. More than once, Alistair found himself wishing longingly for ten more Grey Wardens to split the work.

A letter came from Alisse Fontaine, the Warden-Commander in Montsimmard. She expressed her relief that a few Fereldan Wardens had survived, and promised to pass their names and the names of all Grey Wardens who had fought at Ostagar back to the First Warden. Her second-in-command, a constable named Gordon Blackwall, had indeed been turned away at the Fereldan border by soldiers following Loghain’s instructions. But she alleged that this event had occurred _before_ the king’s men clashed with the darkspawn. Alistair knew little of Alisse, but that she was old, and respected by Duncan, and there was no reason to think she was lying. The way she told it, Cailan had personally invited the Orlesian Wardens to join him.

This information was not useful. Alisse could not send them aid until a sitting monarch lifted the ban on Wardens. The Empress herself had stilled the Warden-Commander’s hand. To thwart Loghain’s edict would be tantamount to a declaration of war. But it did give Alistair a new reason to curse Loghain’s name as he plodded through damp caves.

One mouth in particular worried him to distraction. Elissa. She refused to accept that she could no longer survive eating like a bird. Grey Wardens burned hot, with a vicious hunger which could never be properly sated. It was a side-effect of a body constantly at war with the taint. He vaguely remembered Duncan saying that those in the throes of their Calling would often forget to eat; their insides withered as their blood blackened. Lissa was the sort who preferred to run until evening on nothing but a cup of what passed for coffee, and might only remember an appetite when dinner passed her by. Rather than argue with her pointlessly, Alistair had made it his habit to bring her breakfast. No matter what duties pulled him away in the between hours, he tried his best to be back back in Redcliffe by dawn. It was a common sight to find him at the head of the line. The cooks knew whom he was feeding, and usually found him a little extra— the nicest apple in the bushel, or those soft biscuits she prefered.

Lissa was not a particularly early riser. It made sense; she was a teryn’s daughter. Wealthy nobles enjoyed the luxury of keeping the lamps burning. She swore she did her best work after midnight, but Alistair quietly suspected that she was uneasy about going to sleep in the dark. The Archdemon seemed to be growing larger in his dreams.

Beneath the statue of Andraste the Bride, dozens of tiny votives burned in vigil for lost loved ones. The real Chantry had been converted into a bunkhouse for unmarried women. Mother Hannah held her services in the open air— once at daybreak and again at vespers. The stone Andraste stretched out her worn fingers to him, seeming to say, “I know you are tired. Come rest against my skirts and I will grant you succor.” A candle had been placed in each of her upturned palms. The light called out to him. As he drew near he saw two people sitting beneath the statue.

Alistair got close enough to see them in the faint glow of the tallow candles. Belatedly, he realized he would probably be disturbing them. Solona sat cross-legged on the ground, and Cullen knelt behind her, brushing her silky black hair with a wide-tooth comb. In the pale light her hair gleamed almost blue. Alistair paused, fascinated by the ease by which the templar gathered her locks into bunches and sorted them into an efficient braid. Even knowing the man had grown up with two sisters to practice upon, it was still a gesture which suggested a long intimacy between them.

Time. All Alistair wanted was more time. For all of them. From somewhere in the night, a baby began a hungry cry.

Resolving not to interrupt their tet-a-tet, Alistair wound around the statue, and was almost past when Amell spotted him. “Alistair!” she called out warmly, waving her hand. Her voice was loud in the stillness. “Are you off-duty?”

He turned around to answer her greeting. “I just got back.”

Cullen awkwardly shifted to the balls of his feet, trying to disguise that he had been caressing her cheek a moment before. Cullen and Solona still seemed to live in a world apart, an artificial construct of life in the tower; one where they pretended no one knew they still had feelings for each other. Solona still watched over his nightmares. Cullen still braided her hair. But they did not speak of it. The templar coughed, and cleared his throat. “Did you find any new entrances to the Deep Roads?”

“If you’ll map them for me, I can go out and seal them,” she said eagerly. Fresh air suited Solona. She’d cast aside her mage’s robes for warm trousers and a long leather surcoat, and openly carried a magic staff with a nasty blade on the balance. It looked more like a glaive than a walking stick. The total effect made her appear considerably more dangerous, which was not far off the mark. With Cullen’s shield to defend her, they were practically a squadron all to themselves. Their missions usually sent them east, into the ravaged arling of West Hills.

“No,” Alistair answered, feeling the ache in his calves. He’d spent the afternoon trying and failing to scale the slick, mossy ledges beside a waterfall which supposedly landmarked a major opening to Valammar. Failing meant… falling. He’d nearly sprained a wrist for his trouble, and had bashed his shins on the brittle rock. “Just… no.”

“Bad luck,” Cullen offered.

“Yeah, something like that.” Alistair noticed she had a fresh candle in her lap, still unlit. “Are you praying for someone?” he asked without thinking.

“Oh. This is for...” She absently coiled the long, droopy string of wick around her finger. “Jowan.”

“Forgive me, Solona, I just assumed it would be Cullen’s parents. I should never have asked.”

“No, it’s fine. I thought… No one else would do it. So I thought I would.” Her face pinched up. “I asked Leliana, and she said everyone who died at the castle was buried with the local rites, but—”

Cullen placed a hand on her shoulder, gently cutting her off. “You needn’t explain yourself, Sola.”

“I think I do,” she replied, but she seemed to draw a little strength from his touch. Her voice steadied. “Jowan hurt so many people. It should never have come to that. I knew he was scared. I knew he was a fool. Magic in the hands of a scared fool is not a tool of the Maker.” Now flames began to lick the edge of her fingers, hovering against her skin but never burning her. “It is like a baby finding a knife, and grasping the blade in its fist. We try to teach mages to control their magic, but at the same time we tell them that they can never control themselves. That they will never be more than small children in reach of deadly weapons, and they mustn’t be left unattended.” The wick caught fire with an intense burst of light. “I wanted to shield Jowan from Tranquility. I thought the worst he could do was become an abomination. But he didn’t need a demon to hurt people. He _died_ , and I _live_ the life he wrought by consequence.” Hot melting tallow dribbled down into the grass from the tilted candle. “I pray the Maker forgives me.”

His mouth went dry. “Solona you should know that—”

“I know.”

“—I was the one who—”

“ _Alistair_. I know.”

His ears caught up with his mouth. He fumbled. “You do?”

She nodded. “I was told, before I rescued Connor. So that Desire could not use it against me.”

He had expected… something more than this. Anger. Her careful absolution made the ugliness churn up fast and thick inside him. He didn’t want to be forgiven. “I’m not sure it was really that simple.”

“Don’t. I’m sure whatever it was, knowing won’t make me feel better.” Her conjured fire extinguished with a hiss, like a sudden breeze had blown her out. Only the solitary flame of the candle remained. “Surely there are some things better off not knowing.”

Alistair imagined that breeze encircling him. He was the epicenter, a purple storm separated from the girl of flame. Lightning in his soul. “How can you be sure?” he asked over the roaring in his ears. It connected before she could answer. “ _Elissa_ told you.”

“Yes. She said to trust that I mustn’t ask you.”

“Alistair,” Cullen said, placing wrapping a protective arm around Solona’s chest. “Now is not the time for this. Perhaps you need to go rest.”

The tension snapped. Alistair flashed a thin, watery parody of a smile and retreated. “Yes, I’d better.” But instead of walking deeper into the village, he turned and stumbled back to the west gate.

He got as far as the crest of the next hill before his feet ground to a halt, refusing to carry him farther. Hot tears spilled and rolled down the sides of his nose, pooling against his lips. He tasted them as salt on his tongue. Oh, Maker, he was the same as the rest.

Liar.

Murderer.

The cat on the split rail fence studied him with its enormous yellow eyes. It took a few delicate steps on velvet paws. The air crackled like heat lightning as it shapeshifted, leaving a hole in the air where her old shape had been. “My, my,” said the swamp witch. “What a display!”

“Oh, fuck off, Morrigan,” he gasped, furiously wiping his eyes. Show weakness in front of her and she’d pounce.

A wicked, angry scar bisected her exposed midriff. After her recovery she’d gone back to wearing her favored violet chemise; it framed her scar like a prized trophy. Everyone of importance knew exactly what she was, and the rest were irrelevant. Everything about her was so clear and confident. Morrigan could have dressed as demure as a priestess, and still she would always be an apostate.

“Whatever is the matter now? Did they run out of your favorite cheese?”

“Ha, ha, very funny. How long have you been a blood mage, Morrigan? Since you were a templar-hunting child? Or was the soulbind you cast on me your very first baby steps into maleficarum?”

Morrigan took a step back. Her painted lips were pursed into a grim expression. “Yes, I heard you discovered the name for Mother’s trick. I suppose you want to whine to me again? Why must you be so ungrateful? Be glad you are alive and move on with it!”

“Maker’s balls, do you even know what you did to us? Are you lying or are you just ignorant? I saw the runes you painted on Lissie’s—” His voice caught and splintered, but he carried on, “—dead body. You had your hands right there in the blood. You’re just as complicit as your mother.” He found himself drawing a strange shape in the air with the curve of his hand, unconsciously replicating his memory.

At least she had the decency to blanche. “Saw? T’is not possible.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been seeing all kinds of things lately. An archdemon, prophetic spirits, lying bloody witches!”

“T’is not my fault... ” The wheels clicked behind her eyes. She inhaled softly. “That’s magic. You are a mage.”

Alistair’s shoulder’s slumped. “Yeah.”

“How is that possible?” She circled him, looking down her nose like a bird of prey, checking him from all angles. “Prophecy is a rare and terrible gift.”

“I didn’t start seeing things until after Flemeth sunk her hands into my chest.”

“You were unconscious. Near death! T’isn’t possible you could have seen what you describe. Unless…” Her expression of confusion softened into thoughtfulness. “The Rivaini seers commune with spirits to learn from the other side of the Veil. Mother herself had a form of the gift, though I never knew how she controlled it. When I found you in the Fade, a demon in the guise of Eamon Guerrin was trying to trick you into staying in its domain. It is… possible… that a spirit latched on to you then.”

“She comes sometimes in my dreams.”

“She?”

“An elven woman. Um, dark hair, big eyes, older. The first time, she was with others, but now she comes alone.”

“Do you know her?”

“No. She speaks with a thick Orlesian accent. Maybe she was one of Isolde’s servants?”

“And the others?”

“Er. Elissa, Queen Anora, yourself, and a face I later realized was Amell’s.”

“Hmph. A spirit wearing my face. Am I meant to be flattered?”

Alistair flushed. “It wasn’t that kind of dream.”

“Perish the thought,” Morrigan chuckled darkly. “We all know you keep your cow eyes fixed on the Warden.” She brushed his shoulder in what might have been a comforting manner, had it been any other person. “I will consult Mother’s grimoire. Much of it is written in Old Elvhen; I have been translating, but t’is slow work. I suppose she used the language as code, to keep others away from her most private thoughts.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Much of the spells revolve around thwarting one’s natural lifespan. She has many other rituals beyond the _nas'hasathe_.”

“Still not surprised.”

“T’is possible that something of her gift was implanted within you, to maintain the power of the spell. She told me very little of its effects. Still, I remember the original ritual required that at least one participant be a mage.”

He grimaced. “Maybe you misunderstood. Flemeth didn’t make me a mage. I was… born like that.”

The witch shook her head, and resumed her pacing around him. Her nostrils flared with the intense look on her face; her expression suggested he was a stranger to her. “No. There is simply no way you could have lived among the templars for so long and not revealed yourself.”

“I did.” It felt good to say. A cold place inside him felt warmer by degrees.

“No, you are mistaken. I have been here for months. I would have known if you were a mage. I would have seen you cast _something_.”

“Well I don’t use it, now do I?” Alistair leaned against the wall, interrupting her path. Her circling was beginning to make him dizzy.

“Show me,” she demanded. “Use magic. ”

“I… can’t. It doesn’t work like that any more.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I can feel it.” He rubbed his face. “It’s hard to explain. I can feel it inside me and I can feel it when mages use it. Other mages, I mean. When Jowan was going to use blood magic against us, I could sense him drawing, and I knew to stop him.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” interrupted Solona, walking the line of the fence. Cullen stepped in pace beside her; his eyes were as wide as saucers, and he gripped her arm for dear life. Oh Maker, had they heard everything?

“How long have you—?”

“Long enough!” she said in a clipped manner. “You use templar abilities. I’ve seen you. The templars would have discovered you!” _Like they discovered me_ was left unspoken, but implied.

Cullen’s voice was odd. “He doesn’t use lyrium. I can hear it singing in other templars, but not Alistair. I thought he didn’t use because he never took his final vows.”

“I controlled it,” Alistair tried to explain. Of all the ways he had thought of telling someone, it was not this. Three sets of accusing eyes. But he probably deserved it. “I pushed it down until I couldn’t use it any more.”

“Then smite me,” Solona hissed. Cullen stiffened, looking like he wanted to throw her behind him.

“No!” Alistair gasped.

“If you’re a templar, you’re not a mage. You can’t be both!” Fire gleamed behind Solona’s eyes. “Smite me!”

“Maker’s breath, Sola, why the sudden desire to be injured? Surely there are easier tests,” said Cullen.

“I find myself agreeing with the boy,” said Morrigan. “A simple dispell will suffice.”

“I— fine. If I must.” Alistair closed his eyes, tapped deeply into the cold bottom of his stomach, and drew out the clouds of dispell. Morrigan and Solona made soft noises of discomfort as the fog enveloped them.

“See?” Amell huffed for breath, “He’s a templar.”

“How do you do it?” Cullen said with disbelief. A little too much white showed around his bulging eyes. “How can you do that without lyrium?” His hands came together with a clap. “You’re a seeker!”

“What?” hiccuped Alistair.

“The Seekers of Truth can use the abilities of the Templar Order without of lyrium,” Cullen explained. “I have no idea how. It’s one of the Chantry’s best kept secrets. Most people don’t know of them. Even most templars only know that the Lord Seeker is the head of our Order.”

“The only one I know of is The Hero of Orlais,” Solona recalled, though her cheeks pinked when she admitted from where she knew it. “I read about her in a novel my sister Elspeth sent me.”

“Mages are not allowed to have novels,” Cullen responded automatically, with a slightly glazed look in his eye. He shook his head to clear it. “Maker’s breath, I’m sorry. Habit.”

“No offense taken.”

“Speak for yourself,” Morrigan drawled. “I confess I have not heard of your Seekers of Truth. Perhaps they do not venture into the Wilds. If they do not use lyrium, how do they harness the templar spells?”

“Abilities,” Alistair corrected.

“I do not know,” Cullen admitted. “We would have to find and ask a seeker. They are quite rare.”

Alistair tried to speak, and found his voice had the edge of a tremor. “I don’t want to find a seeker. Oh, Andraste, if I really am some kind of…” He trailed off. ‘ _Abomination,_ he thought. “The last thing I want is a high ranking Chantry authority around asking questions about me.”

“Alistair’s right,” Solona sighed. “Nothing good can come from getting the templars interested.”

“I’m not sure that’s fair,” said Cullen.

“At best, he’s something we don’t understand. At worst, he’s something _they_ don’t understand. What would they do to him then?”

“The Chantry does frown on mages becoming monarchs,” Morrigan said, tapping her nails on the rail of the fence.

Cullen bit his lip. “I just don’t see how he could conceal himself for ten years. If he cannot produce magic, he might not really be a mage. Alistair, did you ever…?”

“Did I ever what? Dance naked under the moonlight? Convene with an evil coven?”

“Did you ever...?” Cullen sighed in frustration and resorted to gesturing violently, widening his fingers and shaking his hands to mime an explosion. “ _Boosh!_ ” He blew air out between his teeth.

“Oh? Did I ever blow anything up? No. When I was nine, I produced a little… light… with my hands.” Alistair covered his eyes, embarrassment seeping into his voice. It had felt so tremendous, so important, so frightening then. “I didn’t say it was a good story. Anyway, I was scared, and I never did it again.”

“That’s it?” Morrigan said incredulously.

“Hey, you get sent to templar school and see how you feel! I did everything I could to hide it. Um, no offense, Solona.”

“I would have done the same,” Solona shrugged. “But of course, I blew something up.”

“Something?” Cullen prompted, clearly knowing the whole story.

“A man. I blew a man up,” Solona confessed dryly. “A templar initiate. He was assaulting a girl younger than me, and mind I was only freshly thirteen. I lost my temper.” The smirk fell away from her lips. “Fortunately my superior agreed, or else they might have demonstrated the brand in a classroom that day.”

Alistair exhaled, “Maker’s breath.”

“I have never made a mistake like that since then. But I do not go boasting about it either. I think we should keep Alistair’s secret.”

“Agreed,” seconded Morrigan. “But I want to hear more about these prophetic dreams. If Mother has tied herself to you, or if it is a spirit, I must investigate further.”

They turned to Cullen. The templar actually smiled. Alistair could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen that. “Don’t look at me. Mage or not, he’s a Grey Warden. I have no more authority over him than I do over Morrigan.”

“Keep dreaming,” Morrigan said.

“But. I think he needs to tell the Warden. That is, uh, assuming you have not?”

“No, I haven’t. And I can't. Tomorrow we leave for Bann Loren’s lands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably one chapter left in this :O


	34. Brother

Sleep had tousled Elissa. The tangles of her hair across the pillow were like that of a child’s well-loved doll. She sprawled diagonally across the cramped little bed they shared, wearing his last clean undershirt as a nightgown. “Budge over,” Alistair whispered, nudging her shoulder with the heel of his hand.

She grumbled, “Wha?” and smacked her lips, rolling in the direction he had pushed her. Alistair had just enough time to shimmy under the sheet before she rolled back, thumping her head against his shoulder.

“You’re such a bed hog,” he chided affectionately.

“Mm,” she answered. “What time is it?”

“Never mind that. Stay with me.”

“Okay.” She sighed and twisted deeper into his embrace. Dawn’s orange light crept along the wall, as the sun rose in the east and peeked through the shuttered window. Birds began to whistle and snap at each other as they picked grubs for their breakfasts. But inside the house there was a sweet stillness. The last moments of calm before the coming storm.

Alistair blinked…

...and then blinked again, and realized that he had fallen into a dreamless sleep without noticing. To him it felt as if no time had passed, but by the light sitting high on the wall he could see it was pushing midday. The red-headed woman was sitting at her desk, parchment clasped in her right hand. Elissa was dressed in her Warden blues, except for her gloves, which were draped over the ironbark halla statuette Alistair kept on the bedside table. The smell of stale chicory coffee lingered from its source, a clay mug gone cold beside her left hand. She’d eaten the biscuits at least. “Did I wake you?” she asked at the change in his breathing, not looking up.

“Nah. You’re dressed to leave. Where are we needed?” The sheet was tangled around his torso and legs. He wiggled to free himself.

“I thought we— you and I— might ride out and clear some trouble off the imperial highway. A little light work before tomorrow’s journey.”

“Why am I sensing a ‘but’ in that statement?” he asked, flipping his legs off the side of the bed.

“I do not think we’ll be heading for Oswin tomorrow, after all.” Lissa selected a small sheet of paper from the top of the stack, and cleared her throat. “I’ve got a message from Loren.” She read aloud in a slightly nasal, oily imitation of a voice she knew well enough:

_To the Estimable Teryna Elissa Elethea Cousland:_

_In the early days of this great calamity upon our kingdom, my guards intercepted a number of army deserters. My intent, of course, was to send them to the capital to face the King’s swift justice. After I learned that His Royal Majesty had passed on to the Maker’s bosom, I had no choice but to keep them in my custody. In one of my most remote forests, my men discovered one who purported much later to be Ser Elric Maraigne. Not a common poacher, I’m told, nor one of the helpless refugees of the Blight, but a prestigious member of the late King’s honor guard._ ”

She twisted away with an irritated glare. She shook the letter in Alistair direction. “Nonsense! ‘No choice’? Who does he think he’s trying to fool?”

Alistair yawned, and slipped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. The bed still seemed soft and inviting, beckoning him back to sleep, but he resisted. “Lis,” he confessed, “I might not be awake enough to follow.”

“Damn him and his fickle fucking loyalties. You know, I actually believed him when he swore he wanted justice for his wife and son. Landra was Mother’s closest friend. I wanted— no, I needed— to believe that at least one of my parents’ friends wasn’t a yellow-bellied snake.” She slapped the table with an open palm. The mug jostled.

“You got all that from one name? Who is this Ser Elric to us?” Alistair approached her slowly, fighting back a second yawn. Elissa’s temper could be quite something, he mused. Heat lightning in the sky above the summer sea. He actually rather liked it, when it was not directed at him.

“It’s not—” She took a deep breath as his fingers began to card through her curly locks. “Mm, that feels nice. You know, I may have overshot myself a little.”

He smiled. “Perish the thought.”

“Scoundrel,” she sighed. “Let me go back. Ser Elric was Cailan’s chamberlain. He held the most prestigious position in his household staff. Before Cailan, he served your father in some lesser capacity, and before that he was in fact a knight of the honor guard. I remember him from the palace when I was a child. What I mean is, he was an older man. He probably went to Ostagar to oversee Cailan’s pages and squires, maybe to guard the royal tent.”

“How did Bann Loren mistake him for an army regular?”

“Loren pretends he did not know who he was holding prisoner..” She drew her hand down the elegant scroll of writing. “Further… here, Loren describes an ‘incident’ by which the prisoner escaped the dungeon; he was fatally wounded when the guard gave chase. Only then, he says, did Maraigne identify himself and suggest that he knew the location of Cailan’s private chest.”

“But you think Loren tortured it out of him?”

“Nothing would surprise me less,” she sighed. “Why tell me at all? Was he afraid I would discover the deed for myself when I came to his castle? It’s been bothering me all morning. If Elric was his enemy, why hold him? If he was a gift for Loghain, why not write me a more convincing lie?”

Alistair’s fingers tightened against her scalp. Elric Maraigne had been a key witness to Loghain’s betrayal. “Blast it! Do you think Bann Loren has turned on us?”

“No way of knowing.” She lifted her hand to free her hair from his roughened touch. “Leli’s been over it, looking for code, but if there’s some alternative meaning, we can’t find it. Some of our closest noble allies will be coming together under Loren’s roof. No matter how you couch it, Loghain will see us as a threat. It was always going to be dangerous.”

“You’re putting lives in danger for me.”

She tilted her head back so she could look at him. “For Ferelden. But yes, for you as well.”

“I don’t—”

“I know you don’t care for that,” she interrupted softly. “I know you never asked for any of this. But we play the hands we’re dealt. We’re Wardens. We do what must be done to stop the Blight.”

“We could all be walking into a trap.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“What will we do if Loren has brought in assassins?”

“If there’s trouble, it will be from his own militia. But the nobles are on edge after what happened to my family. They will all be well guarded. Taoran has kept his ear to the ground for suspicious mercenary contracts, and Zevran is watching for Crows, as it were. It’s been quiet on those fronts. There is one small cell of Crows still operating in Denerim, but they’re not our problem.”

“Since when do we rely on Zevran and Taoran? Might as well drop a letter to Loghain. Ask him pretty please.”

“Don’t be insufferable.” She pinched her earlobe in exasperation, toying with the piercing hole. “I agree that Taoran Hawkwind is a nasty, patricidal piece of work. If I did not need his contacts in the underworld, I would not play his stupid little games. I understand _why_ you don’t like Zevran but I… I just wish you would consider getting to know him.”

“No.”

“But Alistair…”

“Don’t you ‘but Alistair’ me. I don’t have to like all your friends to love you. My hand still doesn’t—” Alistair barely resisted flexing his fingers. Maker’s breath, he was getting as compulsive as Cullen. “And after all of that, he can’t fix Arl Eamon.”

“The poison supplied to Jowan had no known antidote. Only Connor’s demon kept the arl alive. You know that.”

“Then we need a cure. We should be going after Urn the Sacred Ashes.”

“Maker. My love, that’s just a fairy tale. Haven’t I done all I can for your beloved Redcliffe?” Her voice took on a slightly frazzled tone.

Alistair leaned down to kissed her. She tasted different upside down, her lips strange, and somehow softer. He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth. A small thrill tickled his belly at the novelty of it. “You can be cynical, but I believe in it.”

“Hm. And where would you start?” Elissa asked. There was a slight bloom of pink on her cheeks and nose.

“Our one good lead was Brother Genitivi.”

“The historian. I tried that. Genitivi is a wanderer; he has been out of contact for months. Isolde’s knights followed the same leads, fruitlessly, when the trail was fresher.”

“I would speak to his assistant directly. He might remember more than he would say to a stranger on paper.”

“True. Getting into Denerim will not be an easy thing for you and I. But fine. I’ll devote some time into hunting Genitivi, if you’ll do something with me.”

“Anything.” He amended suspiciously, “Anything but make nice with Zevran.”

“I need to go back to Ostagar.”

She might as well have said, _“I need you to marry Anora.”_ Alistair took a step back. “Why?”

“I know.” He heard her swallow. “Loren me sent map references to where Elric supposedly stashed Cailan’s chest and key. I cannot in good faith place you or Teagan or Leonas in harm’s way until I can confirm for myself that Loren is honest.”

“That’s what…” he squinted, “roughly five days from here by horse. Without accounting for rough terrain and blighted country.”

“Think you can manage your seat for that long?” She leaned so far back in her chair that the front legs came up in the air. The top of the back bumped his bare thigh.

“I’m not the one who grew up riding side-saddle. But we were supposed to head north tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell him we’ve been delayed by the darkspawn.” She waved her hand.

“It’s convenient that the excuse is true.” He kept his voice deliberately light, trying to swallow the leaden ball of worry in his throat.

“How fast do you think Morrigan could get us there if she took the lead?”

“As the crow flies.” Alistair answered. “Unless you think she might turn into a griffon?”

She grinned, and reached for the ink pot. “Why don’t you go ask her?” The soft, quick scratch of her quill across paper was as familiar to him now as drawing breath.

When Elissa was not away on missions, she was buried in her papers— writing petitions, negotiating passage through the lands of nervous banns, arranging payment for Taoran’s Blackstone Irregulars, begging Kirkwall and Cumberland to consider accepting in a few more ships full of Fereldan refugees.

That last was a task better suited to the Queen and her staff, but little had been heard from behind the palace walls. Anora was rarely seen out in public. Only the most vague rumors trickled back to them. Anora’s newest lady-in-waiting was Lady Delilah Howe, who kept up a rigorous correspondence with her “dear friend Lily Vasseur”. Delilah’s letters were obfuscated by a code, one devised by the Howe and Cousland children to hide secrets from their elders.

Delilah dutifully dedicated page after page to the most inane topics— to the differences in fashion between Denerim and Amarantine City, the weather on the eastern seaboard, and the stock of her merchant husband. Only a few sentences had meaningful significance, delineated by a simple date cypher. _“Albert is having trouble finding blue silks for the Satinalia Ball”_ meant that Loghain had been heard raging about Orlesian Wardens, while _“the sun has been covered by dark clouds”_ meant that Anora had gotten some bad news.

Alistair had wondered at the sort of woman who could calmly smuggle information from under her father’s paranoid nose. The letters to Lily Vasseur were always addressed to the Southern Bannorn, an area allied decidedly with Loghain. They were then ‘intercepted’ by one of Leliana’s friends, who worked in the tavern where the royal messengers came to drink.

When Alistair inquired further, Elissa referred him to a sketch in her drawing book. Delilah (as remembered by Lissa) was a severe looking young woman, with dark hair, pale eyes, and her father’s distinctive nose. She had little love for her parents and their bitter existence in Vigil’s Keep. Nor did she care for her days spent at Castle Cousland. Delilah thought Fergus was stuck-up; Lissa was the bully who had broken her brother Nathaniel’s heart. In fact, Delilah had great affection for all of her brothers, including the half-brother she shared with the Couslands. The right word in the right ear had whispered the fate of Lachlan Gilmore among her servants, until it reached the lady herself. She made for a rather unlikely ally.

They had a lot of unlikely allies.

Delilah’s newest letter was full of ill tidings— time was running short. The sand in Ferelden’s hourglass slipped down to the last few grains. The city of Gwaren had been abandoned by their teryn. It was said that the whole of the city, from the lowly shoeshines to the mayor’s family, had boarded on the vessels in their shipyard and set sail for the Free Marches. Maker only knew who would take them.

They could not save everyone.

* * *

True to his estimation, the direct path between Redcliffe Village and the fortress of Ostagar was some of the most treacherous terrain in the lowlands. The sheer rocky slopes inevitably hindered their movement south-east, and hours would have been lost searching for the little cut-throughs carved in the foothills, if not for Morrigan in the form of a swallow.

Cold air settled in on the third morning, suggesting that snow would strike the south before Satina’s rebirth in the sky marked the beginning of winter. Indeed, the very next evening sleet poured down on them from blackened skies as they walked on blackened earth. As if even the weather was befouled by the taint.

“This was a stupid idea,” Alistair grumbled, soaked through to the skin. The horses wore their blankets and tarps; he lead them by the reins through shin-deep mud. There was little in the form of shelter in the blight lands— the trees had been burned away. If the animals caught sick and died, they would be stranded deep in darkspawn territory. Morrigan, in the guise of a wet and droopy wolf, snapped at his heels.

“She says she could light you on fire to keep us warm,” Elissa suggested, bemused, even though she was constantly dragging her limp bangs from out of her eyes. She swished past in her sealskin cloak. The cloak was a gift from one of the northern lads she’d met in Leonas’s camp, a lustrous brown-black and artfully stitched. The original owner of the cloak had been Wynda Mac Eanraig, who by coincidence had been one of Lissa’s cousins from the Storm Coast. She had succumbed to blight-sickness during the retreat. The lad, Wynda’s lover, had carried the cloak with him as a memento, but no one but a Warden would dare use it and risk the taint.

“You’ve got fur. She’s got fur. What do I have?”

“A distinct smell of wet dog,” Lissa replied, wrinkling her nose. “Has Barky been sleeping on your cloak?”

“Pneumonia, that’s what I have,” Alistair carried on, pretending he hadn’t heard her.

They plodded onward. The irony of it all was not lost on him. They had fled the Wilds confused, cold, alone, with only a Chasind witch to guide their way. Nothing had changed, except that maybe now they had mounts. Standing in the Korcari Wilds once more, listening to the wild birds singing their unearthly melodies, it was almost as if time stood still. Like they had never really escaped the sick magic which permeated the mists. The Forders, bred for the hills, struggled with their footing in the tangles of tree roots and soft boggy earth.

But if the Wilds were much the same, Ostagar herself had changed. The ruins were… black. There was no better word for it. Clumps of slimy taint grew freely, clinging to the surface of the stone and trees like mold or algae— but everything it touched, it killed. The Blight was an infection in the land itself. This level of corruption was usually only found in the worst of the Deep Roads. The air was thick with the scent of rot; he gagged involuntarily, and wordlessly, Elissa passed him her sachet of sweet-smelling herbs.

On a pillar before the grand bridge, someone had drawn a yellow circle in chalk. Alistair’s chest heaved with silent laughter. It was the mark of blight-sickness. “I met the Dalish once,” he said, apropos of nothing. There was this desperate need in him to fill the unearthly quiet.

Morrigan’s ears pricked up, and she shifted back into human form. “When was this?” she asked.

“Right after I met Duncan. He took me into a forest to search out ingredients for the Joining. He’d heard in the nearby village that there was a clan of Dalish elves staying there, and he wanted another candidate. Joinings often go poorly.”

Elissa scoffed. “You don’t say.”

“It’s not like you can tell who will survive. Sometimes strong men die, and noble girls with stick arms survive.” This made Lissa laugh, but it was a hot, tense sound. “Anyway… we stumbled upon an elf hunter outside a cave. He was unconscious, and in the throes of blight-sickness. He and another of his clan came across a corrupted mirror within a Tevinter ruin, and were infected just by touching it.” Morrigan’s nose curled, and she stepped farther away from the blackened pillar, distancing herself from the taint. She eyeballed the pulsating mass like it might spring free and attach to her. “Never did find the second elf. With the Keeper’s permission, Duncan put Mahariel and myself through the Joining that night. I survived. He did not. It was… horrible.”

“What happened to the mirror?” Morrigan asked, curiously.

“Duncan broke it.”

“A shame.” She shook her head. “How careless.”

“What? Would you have it just… sitting there, killing people?”

“To destroy something so precious, without even knowing what it was… are all Grey Wardens so foolish?”

Alistair shrugged off the insult. “Duncan said it was a magic mirror from Tevinter.”

“It was an eluvian!”

“And what’s that when it’s at home?”

“A powerful relic of Arlathan.” She looked increasingly annoyed, which to be fair was her usual expression. “A device for communicating over great distances. They are exceedingly rare. One can imagine this is because they are so fragile. Mother would know how to cleanse it. Perhaps with a fire ritual.”

“Yeah, thanks but no thanks. I would prefer to leave Flemeth out of my life from here on out. Not really keen on dropping in, saying hello, et cetera.”

“You’re both giving me a headache,” Elissa said softly.

“I know what you mean. Being here makes me feel old,” he said. “Like I was so much younger the last time.”

“But none the wiser,” harrumphed Morrigan, unable to resist a parting shot.

Despite the evidence of heavy darkspawn activity, and the metallic taste in his molars which signified their abundant proximity, there were relatively few hurlocks standing between them and the remains of the Warden camp. The campfires were burnt out and snowed over, but some of the canvas tents were still pitched upright. The merchant’s stall sat vacant. Out of habit, he rummaged around, looking for sovereigns. Funny that he had once found such behavior repugnant. Darkspawn pillaged equipment, but among them only ghouls had interest in gold. He supposed that made him a ghoul. What he uncovered was a good deal more interesting— the Joining chalice.

“Ugh,” groaned Elissa when he held it up. “Throw that thing over the side.”

“I’m keeping it.” He stopped to shove it in his pack. “It’s old. And probably _exceedingly rare_ ,” he added, mimicking Morrigan.

“Fine. Just don’t start drinking out of it.” Lissa turned up her nose, trying to hide how the sight of the chalice affected her. “Besides, I can do you one better.” With unusual care, she tugged a pair of boots off the feet of a freshly slain darkspawn. Golden boots.

“Those can’t be…”

“They are. They were uniquely... ostentatious. Made for the king. Nobody else in Ferelden could have owned a pair exactly like these.” She was grim.

Maker. In all his darkest dreamings, he had not yet lived this nightmare. Some part of him had wanted to believe that the retreating army had reclaimed their dead. Surely Leonas would have looked for Cailan. Surely he would have sent someone to bury the king, and not left him to the darkspawn’s desecration.

He heard Duncan’s voice clearly in his head. Being back in Ostagar brought him close to his mentor again, if only in spirit. On the day of Alistair’s joining, Duncan said, _“Darkspawn sometimes take the bodies. They are evil creatures, and it’s best to leave it at that.”_

The wound tore open, and bled fresh. The scabbed-over feelings from his brother’s death came flooding back. Lissa had lost a brother here, too. A brother she had known and loved. He doubted she had ever forgotten, not for one second. She carried death as an anchor around her neck. She personally wrote to the families of every dead soldier under her; sometimes she even hand-delivered the notice.

“It’s not right,” Alistair said. The boots were beautifully engraved greaves, and curled sabatons. A little garish for Alistair’s tastes, maybe, but that had been Cailan all over. Shining like a beacon in the dark, like the light in the signal tower. Cailan had craved greatness, glory, victory. Like their father. _‘King Cailan the Magnificent, son of Maric the Savior,’_ he thought, feeling a little giddy from nausea.

“It isn’t,” she agreed. “We might find all the pieces if we look. That is, if you want them.”

Alistair looked doubtfully down at his Warden armor. He was not willing to part with it, to commit to wearing a dead king’s armor. Not yet. “I don’t think I could carry it all back.”

“We will split them,” Morrigan said suddenly, “between our three packs, for now. Later, you may tie the pieces to the horses. Or do whatever you wish.” She had strange glint in her eye. Almost compassion, but it was covered over by hardness. These were Morrigan’s lands after all. Chasind land. Flemeth’s hut was less than a day’s walk from the center of the ruins. It had once been wild forest, teeming with life. Now it was foulness. Death.

“Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet.”

* * *

He had never seen Morrigan fight like this before. Ice erupted from her staff as she swung it in quick, precise movements. She threw down ice mines beneath her feet, and let the magic ripple up her leather-clad legs, coating herself in her magic until it formed thick, crystalline armor around her. Anger fueled her. Her ice spiked and went flying, punching bloodless holes through the genlocks.

Elissa was less flashy, but no less lethal. If anything, her footwork had improved from her time among the Dalish. Zevran’s improved recipe for darkness powder allowed her to fade in and out of sight without a noise to give her place away. Alistair was used to compensating for her missteps, laying down the blocks of his shield on her exposed left flank, but she had changed. She had learned to adapt without him. He felt slightly bereft. He ignored the sensation, preferring to put his head down and put his sword to work.

It was not particularly difficult to find the specific statue Elric had described to Loren’s men, once they had cleared the zone of every last filthy spawn. They recovered a brass key, and from there passed through the remains of the king’s camp. The key did not fit in the lock of the big, gilded storage chest in the tattered remains of his tent. But it did fit in a small safe, about the size of a loaf of bread.

“Papers,” Elissa announced with a wry smile, clearing the safe with a sweep of her hand.

“We came all this way for your king’s documents?” said Morrigan, almost in disbelief.

The bundle was bound together in simple twine, but Alistair knew proper vellum when he saw it. Elissa turned them over. Her amusement changed to naked astonishment. “Yes,” she answered, and tore off her gloves to handle them with cleaner hands.

“That’s an Orlesian seal,” Alistair said, peering over her shoulder as she broke the twine. “Scratch that. That’s _the_ Orlesian seal. The lion of House Valmont. And… the tower, that’s got to be Eamon.”

“Mmhm.”

“What do they say?”

Elissa unfolded the first letter from Orlais across her knee, read, and frowned. Perhaps it was not what she expected. She opened Eamon’s next. The scowl lines on her face deepened as her green eyes flicked down the brief missive. The second letter from Orlais looked a little worse for wear, like someone had saved it from a fire. She finished, and quickly shuffled through them three to read again. The color drained from her face.

“Well?” Morrigan demanded, growing impatient with LIssa’s silence.

Elissa startled. She had been very deep in thought. “Fuck.” She shook her head. “Oh, fuck,” she repeated. “We should burn these. _No one_ should have these. Why in the Maker’s name did Cailan leave these for Duncan?”

“Lis, you’re kinda scaring me.”

She bit her lip— it bled. She sucked on the wound. “It’s… I’m not sure ‘treason’ encapsulates the idea properly, but... If Loghain had these he would win the damn regency without ever having to speak a word.” She took a deep breath. “Geraldine passed the rumor on to me. I think it was the last time I was in Denerim. Over a year ago. Maker, that was like a different life. I thought it was one of her jests.”

“Your friend from Orlais knew what was in those letters?”

“Geraldine is a bard in the service of the Empress’s mistress.” She handwaved this detail away. “She knows everything. But she lies like breathing. It’s how she passes the time. Still, she told me Celene and Cailan were passing intimate letters. The logistics alone in keeping letters of this nature private must be astounding.”

“Intimate letters? What does that mean?”

“Remember that Arl Eamon wanted Cailan to divorce Anora?”  
“I do.”

“Eamon’s half of that conversation is here. It is not particularly useful to us, except that it confirms my low opinion of your uncle. Sorry. But this…” Without warning she began to read:

 _“Cailan,_ _  
_ _  
_ _The visit to Ferelden will be postponed indefinitely, due to the darkspawn problem. You understand, of course?_ _  
_   
_The darkspawn have odd timing, don't they? Let us deal with them first. Once that is done, we can further discuss a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden.”_

Lissa flipped to Celene’s second letter.

“ _My Chevaliers stand ready and will accompany the Grey Wardens of Orlais to Ferelden. At your word the might of Orlais will march to reinforce the Ferelden forces._

Hear this? Warden-Commander Alisse never breathed a word about Chevaliers accompanying her constable to the Fereldan border.”

Morrigan sniffed. “It seems your Loghain may be sane after all.”

Alistair suddenly felt very weary. A slight numbness settled in his hands. He stared at them, trying to form a fist. His fingers moved sluggishly, like they were thickened by cold. “It wasn’t an invasion. It was an alliance. The Empress wanted to help Fereldan fight the Blight.”

Elissa stood, still turning over the three letters as if they might magically reveal more to her. But there were no coded messages there, no subterfuge. “The old guard— Loghain, Rendon, the Brylands, the Eremons, and many other families shed blood to be rid of the Chevaliers. Loghain would never have let them in. Cailan was a fool to think he could court Celene, and he was twice a fool for doing it in secret.”

“He was still our king. He deserved better than this.” Alistair pointed to the pieces of golden armor they had retrieved, mottled with ichor like ink stains.

“I don’t disagree.” She sighed heavily.

“Cailan believed he’d go out as a hero— hair waving, bright eyes blazing. This… this is not the ending he would have wished for.” Why had his voice gone so hoarse? “This is not the ending _I_ would have wished for.” Ishal, always lingering in the corners of his dreams, like the Black City hovering in the raw Fade. He wanted it all gone.

They crossed over the grand bridge which spanned the valley below. Alistair peered over, remembering the sounds and smells of two armies at war. Hounds baying, flaming arrows lighting up the night... Until now, there had been very little trace of the fallen. A broken weapon here or there. Some gnawed bones. The darkspawn were efficient. They did not waste their kills. No bodies left to moulder, except—

Elissa was only two steps ahead of him. “Sweet Bride of the Maker! Alistair, don’t look!” she shrieked, whirling and catching him by the arm. The whites in her eyes were wild. Lissa shoved him back, one hand on his bicep and the other on his chest; whatever she’d seen threatened to buckle her knees. He let her pull at him, caught her when she fell. He could see over her head.

In the center of the bridge, a corpse had been hung on a monument made of broken barricades. Arrows pierced the naked white flesh. The fingers, toes, nose, ears, and genitals were all blue-black with frostbite, rendering the man almost unrecognizable. An emissary had tried to preserve this macabre trophy with cold magic. Alistair did not turn away until he saw the shock of lank yellow hair. Sick boiled up in his throat.

“This is what matters to so many? The wild places did not mark his fall,” Morrigan commented grimly, staring up at the tableau.

He peeled away to vomit. Then, the darkspawn swarmed the bridge. A genlock emissary taunted him from a distance, resurrecting skeletal remains. Purple tendrils of dark magic weaved on their insidious path toward Cailan’s body.

‘ _No,’_ Alistair thought, _‘I will not let you have him.’_

He was a wall. He was the Maker’s holy sword. “Through blinding mist, I climb a sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base endlessly far beneath my feet. The Maker is the rock to which I cling,” he murmured, throwing himself between Morrigan and danger. His shield rang out with sweet music. Morrigan gave him an arched look and finished off the skeleton. “I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, in darkness enveloped.”

The emissary turned tail and ran. Alistair snarled and gave chase through the crowd. Warhammers and swords swung at him from all sides. He parried what he could and ignored the bite of the blows that landed. The necromancer goaded him through swarms of the undead, all the way to the base of the tower. The Chant on his lips came easily, even running at a sprint, each syllable hissed between breaths. “Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

“Alistair!” A cry from behind him. Lissa, hacking through a mob with her twin blades to keep up with him. “Wait!”

He called back. “I can take it myself.”

“Not without me, you’re not.”

She caught him at the door. Black blood was splashed across her face, painting her, running in trickles down her neck. Morrigan, a bird in flight, landed gracefully beside her. She looked remarkably clean, as usual. Not a single drop of tainted blood had breached Morrigan’s barrier.

Lissa started to reach out for him, but she hesitated. “Do you know you’re glowing?”

He looked down. His gauntlets were ringed by a faint aura of white-blue light. The glow permeated his armor. “Templar thing,” he said. If he thought about it too hard, he would be sick again. Morrigan snorted. “The Chant helps me focus.”

“Are you okay?”

“I can’t… No. I’m not.” He clenched his jaw so hard that he could hear his teeth grinding together in his own ears. “He was a good man, who hoped too much, and died too young.”

“We’ll go back for him.”

He nodded curtly. “He deserves what little honor we can afford to grant him.”

The Tower of Ishal in daylight was just… another tower. Gray stone walls, gray stone floor, the occasional patch of moss. It was different from how he remembered. They killed a reanimated ogre. Alistair knew the weak places by heart; they’d slain a dozen ogres since the first. That this one happened to _be_ the first made it no different. Lissa crowed with delight as she pulled her old family sword from the brainstem of the beast.

The darkspawn tunnels had begun to collapse the floor. They followed them down, through the nests of the corrupted spiders, and finally out into the valley. He took sick pleasure in smiting the darkspawn necromancer; darkspawn magic was still magic, and emissaries were still susceptible to templar abilities. It went flying with a grunt, blinded, dazed, and powerless. While Elissa moved in for the kill, he turned, calling down the Wrath of Heaven upon the risen ogre. A column of brilliant blue-white light split the sky. For a moment he swore he could hear the electricity in his blood as he ended the creature. Duncan’s swords were still skewered in its rotten flesh.

“Fucking ogres,” Elissa said, as she caught her breath. Her throat sounded raw. She rubbed her throat in the cold air.

It was snowing. The ice and ichor was powdered in a thin sheet of clean white. The old battlefield stretched out across the valley and into the wild forest. Somewhere beyond the line of his vision there was the main darkspawn incursion, a great maw in the earth. The taint was singing a strange melody he’d never heard before. He wanted to kill. He wanted to rend and tear. He wanted to march out to that wound in the world and slaughter every one of those darkspawn who had taken his brother away from him.

The girl with the hair of flames touched his cheek, studying him with concern. Quietly, she wrapped her arms around him. He returned her embrace with almost desperation. “We made it,” she said mildly. “We did it. We don’t have to go farther.” She spoke as though she could read his burning thoughts.

He whispered. “I don’t know how to turn it off.”

Lissa pressed her smooth cheek against his beard. “Think of all the things you want more.”

What more did Alistair want? He closed his eyes. The smell of perfumed water in a hot bath. Lazy mornings in bed. His fingers learning to comb and braid her unruly hair. A sword rusting away on a fireplace mantle. Children laughing in a rose garden. “I want you,” he said, opening his eyes to the cold.

 

* * *

 

**THE END**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon: 
> 
> “Necessary Evils”— Just how far will two Wardens go to end a war?
> 
> I would like to thank EkoCentric, redrosemary, ChaoticHarmony1991, MSG1000, Pegg, The Femquisition, Mirari.Divinus, olivegbg, Melysande, Darkly Tranquil, PurpleCandyCorn, Marika_Haliwell, AlexandraluvsAlistair, and everyone who has read and liked this story on fanfiction or archiveofourown.
> 
> I would also like to thank ib-gomes for painting the cover art!
> 
> "Bright Things" was written between August 2014 and March 2017. During that time I got married, had a baby, and bought a house. I suppose it was my second baby. I look forward to working on the next part of this story!


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